More  than  Kin. 


"'BYjAMbS  VILA  BLAKE 


THOMAS   RUTHERFORD  BACON 

ME-MO^!4L    LIBRA.RY 


//) 
v-J 


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More  than  Kin: 


A   BOOK   OF   KINDNESS: 

THINGS  GOTTEN  OF  LIFE  AND  FOS- 
TERED OF  THOUGHT:  IN  WHICH 
THE  AUTHOR  is  MORE  OBLIGED  TO 
A  DEAR  AND  NOBLE  OTHER  ONE 
THAN  TO  His  OWN  WIT: 


By  JAMES  VILA  BLAKE, 


CHICAGO: 
CHARLES   H.   KERR  &  COMPANY. 

1893- 


KfQt, 


COPYRIGHT,   1893,  BY  JAMES  VILA  BLAKE. 


PRESS  OF  THOS.  P.  HALPIN  &  Co. 
178  MONROE  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


tf.  I  - 


To  my  Sister,    Counselor,  Friend. 


267945 


Preface. 


Reader,  if  you  read  with  friendliness  and 
belief,  I  have  naught  to  say  to  you  but 
what  already  is  said  in  the  book.  But  if 
you  come  with  unbelief,  and  with  scorn  of 
the  simplicity  of  romance,  then  let  me  tell 
you  I  deny  not  that  fancy  has  some  vein  in 
these  pages;  notwithstanding,  the  book  is 
truth.  Incidents,  persons,  thoughts,  char- 
acter, the  life,  the  language,  are  real;  of 
which  I  have  joyful  knowledge. 

J.   V.   B. 
June,  1893. 


Contents. 


I.  More  than  Kin, 

II.  The  Proof 

III.  Two  Parts  of  Kindness,    . 

IV.  The  Amount 

V.  The  Discipline, 

VI.  A  Labor  of  Love, 

VII.  The  Invisible  Heart, 

VIII.  The  Responsibility,      . . 

IX.  Meanness  of  Unkindness, 

X.  Reciprocity, 

XL  Making  an  Average, 

XII.  Vanity 

XIII.  Calmness 

XIV.  Invention, 
XV.  Happiness, 

XVI.  Encouragement, 

XVII.  Recommendation,  .  . 

XVIII.  Truthfulness, 

XIX.  Fault-Finding, 

XX.  Helping, 

XXI.  Advising 

XXII.  Respectfulness, 

XXIII.  Education 

XXIV.  Outcasts, 

XXV.  Children 

XXVI.  Beauty, 

XXVII.  Grieving  the  Spirit, 

XXVIII.  Sporting, 

XXIX.  Conclusion,  . . 


9 

12 
15 
23 
30 

36 

53 
67 

74 
78 

83 
106 
in 


153 
164 
I69 

180 

193 
209 

216 
228 
247 
267 
278 
296 

3ii 
328 


More  than  Kin. 


I. 

It  is  my  Sister's  good  will  that  names 
this  little  book  "More  than  Kin." 

In  letters,  more  than  kin  by  one  char- 
acter. 

In  life,  more  than  kin  by  all  the  world! 

Kind  is  more  than  kin  by  one  letter  to 
the  eye;  but  to  the  "mind's  eye,"  by  all 
the  wide  world. 

Men  have  been  vultures,  cormorants, 
wolves,  foxes,  to  their  kin.  But  no  kind 
soul  has  plotted  injury,  even  against  an 
enemy.  Therefore  a  kind  man  is  more 
than  a  kinsman. 

To  be  kin,  yet  being  not  kind,  is  to  be 
like  a  gnarled  bit  of  wood,  or  a  poisonous 
root  mayhap,  cast  up  on  a  river  bank. 
For  a  mere  kinsman  by  lineage  is  no  more 
than  a  bit  of  body  cast  up  on  the  banks  of 
a  certain  blood-stream.  He  may  be  like 
the  drift-wood,  taking  unkindly  to  any 
good.  I  mean,  as  I  have  said,  that  one 
may  be  kin  without  being  kind.  But  no 
man  can  be  kind  without  being  kin — a 
kinsman  of  the  soul,  by  right  of  the  com- 
9 


More  than  Kin. 

mon  nature  of  us,  who  are  all  of  one  spir- 
itual fountain. 

Now,  if  this  be  true,  what  matters  it 
how  high  the  kin?  To  be  a  kind  man  is 
more  than  to  be  a  kinsman,  though  of  a 
king's  line.  Here  then  is  a  royal  thing, 
this  kindness!  more  royal  than  a  king's 
son!  If  one  be  high  in  kin,  even  of  a 
king's  blood,  but  low  in  kindness,  he 
is  of  base  degree;  but  whoever  is  low  in 
kin,  even  but  a  stevedore's  son,  but  ex- 
alted in  kindness,  is  very  high. 

There  is  a  fable  of  a  man  driving  a 
donkey  laden  with  a  heavy  sack  of  corn. 
The  load  slipped  off  the  good  animal's  back 
to  the  ground.  Just  then  came  by  the 
owner's  brother.  "Thou  art  come  at  the 
very  nick  of  time,  brother,"  cried  the 
donkey-driver;  "pray  help  me  up  with 
this  corn  sack."  "It  were  a  hard  lift  for 
three  men,"  said  the  brother.  "  But  try  a 
little;  two  hearts  in  one  heave  may  do 
much."  "What  folly!  'tis  too  heavy,  I 
tell  thee;"  and  he  went  away.  "  Master," 
said  the  donkey,  "what  can  not  be  done 
by  main  force  may  come  little  by  little. 
I  will  lay  me  down;  rest  you  one  end  of 
yonder  rail  on  my  back,  and  belike  you 
can  roll  up  the  corn-sack  upon  me."  The 
man  did  so.  "Ah!"  said  he,  caressing 
the  soft  ears  of  the  donkey,  "  Poor  creat- 
10 


More  than  Kin. 

ure,  thou  showest  me  there  is  something 
more  than  kin."  "  That  is  like  the  hawk 
and  the  nightingale,"  said  the  donkey. 
"What  is  that  story?"  asked  the  master. 
The  donkey  recited:  "A  mellifluous  night- 
ingale one  day  was  pounced  on  by  a  hawk. 
'As  you  sing  so  charmingly/  cried  the 
hawk,  'how  deliciously  must  you  taste!' 
That  was  as  foolish,"  said  the  donkey,  "as 
to  think  that  if  one  be  kin  he  needs  must 
be  kind;  for  the  two  are  different." 


11 


The  Proof. 


II. 

From  what  I  have  said  to  the  effect 
that,  however  low  in  social  place,  a  man 
may  be  royal  by  kindness,  my  mind  went 
suddenly  on  a  journey  from  step  to  step  of 
associations,  thus, — A  lowly  rank  but  a 
royal  mind;  then  the  value  of  the  inward 
state  over  the  outward  lot;  then,  the  text, 
"  Is  not  the  life  more  than  meat,  and  the 
body  than  raiment  ?  "  then,  the  lilies  of 
the  field,  and  King  Solomon;  then  the  de- 
scription of  the  good  wife  and  mother  in 
the  last  chapter  of  Proverbs.  By  this  path 
I  came  round  again  to  kindness;  back 
from  my  little  journey  to  find  myself  again 
in  the  home  of  my  theme,  in  the  text  which 
is  part  of  that  glowing  praise  of  the  good 
wife,  namely,  "  In  her  tongue  is  the  law  of 
kindness." 

It  is  a  point — and  a  very  notable  one 
herein — that  it  is  not  wrkten  that  she 
is  a  loving  character;  only  that  "in  her 
tongue  is  the  law  of  kindness,"  and  that 
all  her  life  is  kind  and  dutiful  works.  Did 
not  the  singer  well? — say  I.  Should  he 
12 


The  Proof. 

present  to  us  a  mountain,  and  say,  Take 
note,  this  is  a  mountain?  If  behave  given 
us  brave  deeds,  should  he  say,  Take  heed 
now  that  here  is  a  hero?  Are  not  the 
true  proofs  above  words  ?  Should  he 
draw  up  for  us  this  portait  of  a  blessed 
wife,  and  say,  Take  note  now  that  here  is 
love?  Behold,  the  face  thereof  is  shining 
on  us.  There  is  no  proof  of  love  except 
the  deeds. of  it.  Ossa  on  Pelion  of  car- 
esses and  wooings  will  not  reach  the 
heaven  of  love  like  the  wing  of  a  kind 
deed.  Words  and  tendernesses  are  like 
spires  and  pinnacles  in  architecture,  beau- 
tiful if  plainly  they  stand  on  good  piers; 
otherwise,  false  things  and  terrors.  There 
is  no  sign  nor  measure  of  love  whatever 
but  the  doing  of  kind  deeds.  I  recall  often 
the  right  reason  of  a  woman  who  said  she 
found  it  hard  to  bear  that  her  husband 
should  caress  her  on  one  arc  of  the  pen- 
dulum and  profanely  revile  her  on  the  next 
swing.  I  warrant  you  he  would  have  had 
no  oaths  tripping  to  his  tongue  if  the  while 
before  he  had  been  busy,  not  with  caresses, 
but  with  some  kind  deed  for  her,  some 
needful  care,  thoughtful  consideration,  in- 
venting somewhat  or  disposing  things  for 
her  pleasure  or  ease. 

Here  comes  not  ill  a  fable  or  story   of 
this  truth,  that  only  the   deed   of  love  is 
13 


The  Proof. 

the  proof  of  love:  A  man  wished  to  marry 
a  maiden.  "  Will  you  be  my  wife?'1  said 
he,  "I  love  you."  "  That  turns,'1  said  the 
maid,  "  on  how  much  love  you  have.  How 
many  yards  of  it  have  you?"  " Yards?" 
quoth  the  man.  "Ay,  and  pounds?" 
"Pounds?"  "Ay,  and  baskets?"  "Bas- 
kets?" "How  many  times  daily  will  you 
take  steps  for  me?"  said  the  maid — "that 
is  the  yards  of  it;  and  how  much  will  you 
lift  me  the  tubs  of  water? — that  is  the 
pounds  of  it;  and  how  much  will  you  chop 
me  the  chips  for  the  fire? — that  is  the 
baskets  of  it."  "A  woman  must  do  her 
work,"  said  the  man  sullenly.  "Ay,"  said 
the  maid,  "but  belike  you  want  the  work, 
not  love  the  woman.  In  this  same  way 
the  lamb  answered  the  wolf."  "  How  was 
that?"  said  the  man.  The  maid  recited: 
"A  wolf  said  to  a  lamb,  '  O  you  beautiful 
creature,  how  dearly  I  love  you! '  But  the 
lamb's  mother  was  a  wise  sheep  and  had 
instructed  her.  'You  mean/  said  the 
lamb,  «  What  a  good  meal  I  should  make 
you,'  and  skipped  away." 


14 


Two  Parts  of  Kindness. 


III. 

My  Sister  in  my  mind  is  the  better  por- 
tion of  any  theme  like  to  mine,  and  I  can 
not  part  my  thoughts  from  her.  She  is  the 
very  image  and  dream  of  kindness.  By 
deed  and  by  word  in  our  happy  life  together 
she  has  given  me  many  thoughts  and  much 
instruction  concerning  this  kindness,  what 
truly  it  is.  Therefore  if  I  turn  waywardly,  as 
it  may  seem,  from  my  theme  to  my  Sister, 
and  back,  to  and  fro,  let  the  reader  remem- 
ber that  I  have  intended  no  better  order,  but 
only  to  write  on  as  heart  and  mind  should 
work  together — not  treatise-like.  As  over 
my  life,  so  over  my  writing  my  Dozen  is  like 
a  sky  over  a  landscape;  sometimes  I  am 
conscious  of  the  sky  mainly,  anon  of  the 
land-view,  again  of  both,  sometimes  the 
sky  is  night-hidden,  now  sun-gleaming, 
again  breaking  in  with  a  rain  or  a  breeze. 

A  glance  up  the  page  shows  me  that  I 
have  written  her  name  "Dozen."  Ah! 
well,  I  will  not  remove  it.  What  shame  in 
my  fancies?  Why  blush  for  my  quips  and 
sports?  Know,  then,  friendly  reader  (and 
15 


Two  Parts  of  Kindness. 

if  thou  be  not  friendly,  why,  beshrew  thee ! 
Go  learn  of  birds  and  flowers,  which  think 
neither  of  decking  nor  undecking  them- 
selves, nor  of  showing  themselves  nor  hid- 
ing!) that  Dozen  is  my  name  in  brief  for 
my  Sister.  You  may  count  twelve  letters 
in  "  Sister  Marian;"  whence  I  call  her 
<  <  Dozen  "  for  short.  What  say  you  ?  That 
perhaps  it  were  well  to  draw  a  silence 
around  my  carolings?  Go  to!  Do  I  con- 
strain you?  And  may  a  bird  not  fly  in 
the  air  lest  some  one  think  him  too  blitfre, 
or  say  he  should  nest  his  raptures? 

For  the  light  of  kindness  which  streams 
over  me  from  my  Dozen,  what  return  make 
I?  Ah!  I  fear  it  is  long  since  I  have 
bethought  me  enough  of  that.  I  must 
consider  it.  I  will  invent  some  delight  for 
her,  some  bit  of  surprising  thought.  For 
it  is  the  best  sweetness  of  a  kindness  to 
be  the  fruit  of  thought,  of  consideration. 
Neither  shall  she  upbraid  me  with  a  sacri- 
fice of  our  few  pennies  for  her  sake.  Noth- 
ing is  cheaper  than  the  best  pleasures  are. 
Yes,  I  must  contrive  some  kind  thing,  to 
charm  her.  I  will  give  heed  to  it.  If  it 
be  only  a  word  well  considered,  it  is  rich. 
What  says  the  ancient  wise  singer,  "Shall 
not  the  dew  assuage  the  heat?  So  is  a  word 
better  than  a  gift."  It  has  been  said  well, 
"A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  offence." 
16 


Two  Parts  of  Kindness. 

Well  then,  a  small  kindness,  if  it  be 
thought  of  well  and  invented  cunningly,  is 
a  great  offering,  belike  a  rich  benefit. 

Kindness  has  two  parts:  i. — Unwill- 
ingness to  inflict  the  least  needless  pain, 
either  of  body  or  of  mind;  this  is  the  neg- 
ative part.  2. — Wish  and  effort  to  add  to 
the  sum  of  joy;  this  is  the  positive  part. 
Now  I  shall  be  far  from  saying  that  it  is 
nothing  to  have  the  negative  part  of  kind- 
ness without  the  positive;  for  merely  to  be 
merciful  and  avoid  giving  pain  is  some- 
thing. Besides,  I  fear  me  much  that  if  I 
were  strict  to  grant  no  virtue  to  this  indol- 
ent mercy,  I  should  refuse  to  think  a  half 
of  the  world,  and  mayhap  a  larger  portion, 
kind,  so  vastly  does  the  negative  goodness 
of  not  giving  pain  abound  more  than  the 
positive  virtue  of  kindness,  which  is  to  in- 
crease joy!  Moreover,  many  a  man  (if  I 
may  trust  my  eyes  which  many  a  time  have 
beheld  it)  who  will  not  set  his  lump  of 
a  body  in  motion  to  give  a  pleasure,  will 
show  himself  no  little  spry  to  relieve  a 
pain  if  it  come  close  before  him;  and  I 
must  not  say  there  is  no  virtue  in  this.  Nay, 
it  hangs  on  the  brink  of  being  very  vir- 
tuous with  the  very  heavenliness  of  kind- 
ness, by  as  much  as  it  is  not  done  without 
an  active  bestirring  of  the  man.  Finally, 
it  is  plain  sight,  if  we  but  open  our  eyes  by 
17 


Two  Parts  of  Kindness. 

day,  that  unmercifulness,  even  to  a  delight 
in  seeing  pain,  or  at  least  in  sports  which 
inflict  suffering,  not  yet  has  gone  the  way  of 
other  barbarisms,  but  often  is  to  be  met 
in  young  persons;  for  youth  is  cruel.  A 
lover  of  our  dumb  fellow  creatures,  I  mean 
the  brutes,  even  laments  that  "the  same  in- 
stincts of  cruelty,  love  of  sport  and  de- 
structiveness,  break  out  at  a  later  stage 
among  adults  of  the  highest  ranks,  includ- 
ing royalty  itself,  when  they  revel  in  the 
butchery  of  battued  pigeons  or  hares. "  For 
these  reasons,  then,  I  will  not  say  there  is 
no  virtue  in  negative  kindness,  the  not  giv- 
ing pain,  nor  in  the  little  higher  leap  of 
goodness  which  is  the  relieving  of  pain 
if  we  see  it.  Yet  I  can  not  say  there  is 
much  excellence  or  a  very  human  loveli- 
ness in  it.  To  let  men  alone  while  they 
suffer  no  sad  pangs,  careless  whether  they 
have  any  good  joys,  is  but  a  meagre  leanness 
of  heart  which  will  singrno  carols  of  praise. 

Two  parts  in  kindness:  i.  Not  to  give 
pain;  2.  To  give  joys; — here  is  a  doctrine 
for  life,  here  is  a  store  of  food  and  a  well 
of  water,  here  is  "daily  bread." 

Ah!  I  can  hold  me  from  pausing  here 
no  more  than  from  lifting  my  eyes  to  a 
break  of  light.  With  the  words  "daily 
bread  "  comes  the  thought  of  my  Dozen  to 
my  mind;  and  when  enters  she  the  doors  of 
18 


Two  Parts  of  Kindness. 

my  heart  (which  truly  she  keeps  swinging) 
but  a  blessing  enters  with  her  like  light 
over  her  shoulder?  But  now  she  comes 
as  a  memory,  with  the  words,  "daily 
bread."  Once  said  she  to  me,  "Thou  art 
my  daily  bread,  my  dear."  For  in  sooth, 
though  I  seem  to  do  little  service  for  her, 
yet  she  will  have  it  that  I  do  much,  saying 
I  am  like  a  river  which  so  disperses  and 
exhales  of  its  substance  that  it  does  wide 
kindness  by  its  flowing  on.  But  I  know 
well  that,  like  Eve  looking  into  the  pool, 
she  but  sees  herself  in  her  imaginary  river 
and  fancies  the  figure  another  creature. 
"Thou  art  my  daily  bread  "  said  my  sister, 
meaning  that  she  fed  of  love  and  did  her 
work  by  the  nourishment  of  it.  Well! 
well! 

But  this  analysis  of  kindness,  I  say, 
namely,  that  it  has  two  parts,  which  I  will 
phrase  again  thus,  i. — Non-unkindness; 
2. — Invention  and  giving  of  joys — this  is 
"daily  bread"  for  daily  life;  this  is  doctrine 
to  take  to  heart  seriously.  Ah!  the  differ- 
ence of  the  parts!  Ah!  the  deep  pit  be- 
tween not  being  unkind  and  being  indeed 
kind!  How  little  do  I  if  I  cause  no  pains, 
if  therewith  also  I  make  no  joys!  Let  me 
not  plume  me  with  virtue  if  I  hurt  no  one. 
That  is  but  the  lower  part  of  kindness,  the 
feet  of  it.  If  I  rise  to  the  heart,  the  head, 

19 


Two  Parts  of  Kindness. 

the  eye  of  it,  kindness  is  the  consideration 
how  to  give  joys,  and  increase  them. 

This  is  the  teaching  of  the  Master  in  the 
splendid  and  terrific  place  in  the  Gospels 
wherein  he  sets  forth  the  tests  or  reasons 
which  shall  part  the  sheep  from  the  goats. 
For  the  Master  lays  no  ill  deeds  to  the 
charge  of  those  whom  he  drives  headlong 
from  him,  to  the  fire  prepared  for  the 
devils.  Their  misery  is  that,  however  they 
have  done  no  evil  acts,  they  have  done 
far  worse,  for  they  have  done  no  good 
deeds.  He  says  not  to  them,  Ye  made 
men  hungry,  ye  stole  their  meat,  ye  spilled 
their  drink,  ye  robbed  them  of  their  gar- 
ments and  left  them  naked,  ye  poisoned 
;and  sickened  them,  ye  threw  them  into 
.dungeons.  No,  not  with  one  such  evil 
,deed  doth  he  face  them.  But  he  says 
they  have  not  done  the  good  deeds,  they 
jiave  not  fed  men,  not  given  drink  to 
the  thirsty,  not  clothed  the  naked,  not 
nursed  the  sick,  not  visited  the  prisoner. 
This  is  all  their  condemnation;  but  a  mill- 
stone about  their  necks  in  a  fiery  sea. 
For  not  to  make  men  famished,  thirsty, 
naked,  sick,  enslaved,  is  not  the  same  as  to 
be  merciful  and  loving-kind  unto  them. 
Neither  as  to  the  good  sheep  on  the  other 
side,  doth  the  Master  commend  them 
whom  he  calls  into  his  light  and  kingdom, 
20 


Two  Parts  of  Kindness. 

for  not  having  done  this  sin,  or  that  one, 
or  some  other;  of  these  he  says  naught;  but 
lie  receives  them  because  they  have  done 
good  deeds  of  mercy  and  loving-kindness. 

A  story  has  it  that  a  wise,  albeit  a  strict 
Dervis,  about  to  go  on  a  journey,  was 
besought  by  a  pleasant  fellow  in  the  town 
that  he  might  go  with  him.  "Not  so," 
said  the  sage. 

"Why,  what  fault  can  you  find  with 
me?  "  said  the  man. 

"None." 

"Why  then,  give  me  your  hand." 

"Not  so.  I  am  too  poor  myself  and 
need  too  much  help  on  the  way  to  go  with 
one  of  whom  I  can  say  only  that  I  can 
find  no  fault  with  him." 

"Why,  what  more  would  you  have  than 
to  find  no  fault  in  me?  " 

"I  would  find  some  virtue  in  you. 
'What  fault?  '  say  you:  <  None,'  say  I;  but 
if  you  asked  me,  'What  virtue?'  again 
I  should  say,  'None.'  For  to  do  no  ill 
is  not  the  same  as  to  have  virtue,  not  to 
run  away  is  not  the  same  as  to  be  brave, 
not  to  hate  is  not  the  same  as  to  love,  to 
keep  clean  of  evils  is  not  the  same  as  to 
engage  with  virtue,  to  behave  so  that  no 
bad  actions  can  be  charged  is  not  the  same 
as  to  be  a  noble  man.  This  is  what  the 
Roman  slave  whispered  to  his  donkey." 
21 


Two  Parts  of  Kindness. 

"What  is  that  story?  "  said  the  man. 

"  The  slave  Crato,"  answered  the  Dervis, 
"came  one  day  to  the  stable  and  whis- 
pered into  the  long  soft  ears  of  his  ass, 
<  Woe  is  me,  Asellus,  that  I  must  serve 
such  a  master.'  'Is  he  then  so  cruel  or 
wicked?'  asked  the  donkey.  '  Nay,  'said 
Crato,  'he  has  not  a  fault  in  the  world.' 
'Why  this  lamentation,  then?'  cried  the 
donkey.  'Alas!  good  Asellus,'  said  the 
slave,  'neither  has  he  a  virtue.'  There- 
fore, friend,"  continued  the  Dervis,  if  I 
can  find  naught  in  you  but  that  you  do  no 
ill  things,  I  will  jog  along  alone,  till  I  come 
to  one  who  does  good  things." 


22 


The  Amount. 


IV. 

Kindness  then  has  two  parts:  i. — Not  to 
give  pain;  2. — To  give  joys.  This  brings 
the  question,  How  much  must  we  bethink 
and  bestir  ourselves  to  give  joys?  The 
positive  side  of  kindness  is  a  husbandman's 
work.  Joys  will  not  grow  unless  they  be 
planted  first  and  tilled  continually.  I 
mean  that  to  be  kind  in  the  way  of  adding 
joys  to  the  daily  walks  of  the  persons  about 
us,  is  first  a  work  of  invention  and  seeding, 
and  then  a  work  of  fostering.  Now,  how 
much  must  we  do  this?  To  what  amount 
turn  aside  from  our  own  path  or  stop  our 
journey,  that  we  may  plant  corn  in  an- 
other's field  or  border  another's  path  with 
box  and  poppies?  Bacon  avers  that  great 
lovers  of  their  country  or  of  their  masters 
have  not  been  fortunate,  nor  can  be,  be- 
cause he  that  considers  another  man  "goeth 
not  his  own  way."  'Tis  not  to  be  denied 
that  to  make  a  business  of  giving  joys  is 
sacrificial.  Yet  this  steady  business  is  the 
only  positive  kindness.  If  it  be  not  steady, 
then  a  man  may  spot  his  life  here  and  there 
23 


The  Amount. 

with  kind  acts,  but  the  spots  will  not  be  the 
hue,  nor  will  this  make  a  kind  man  any 
more  than  sometimes  to  tell  the  truth  is  to 
be  truthful.  Therefore,  joy-giving  is  sacri- 
ficial— not  to  be  done  without  cost  of  ease 
or  substance.  Therefore,  it  is  a  question 
how  much  we  must  do  it. 

How  much  must  I  be  kind,  by  the  posi- 
tive side  of  it?  How  much  must  I  invent 
joys  and  bring  them  to  pass?  I  answer, 
All  I  can. 

All  I  can.  There  is  no  limit  but  the  end 
of  my  power.  Kindness  is  not  like  a  bar- 
ter, so  much  for  so  much;  or  so  much  by 
contract,  and  my  duty  done.  But  kind- 
ness is  like  a  righteousness  or  like  a  wor- 
ship, not  done  unless  it  be  done  all  I  can. 
For  the  heart  must  run  forth  without  meas- 
ure like  a  child,  and  kindness  be  wound 
around  like  a  child's  arms  about  the  neck, 
not  by  measure,  but  as  tightly  and  as  long 
as  they  can  be. 

But  now  you  will  say,  very  like,  that 
thus  a  man  may  throw  himself  all  away. 
He  may  waste  away  his  substance  and 
time  and  mind  on  other  persons,  till  he 
have  no  more  left  and  no  means  for  getting, 
and  has  become  a  mere  cast-up,  having 
attended  to  every  one  till  he  can  do  so  no 
more  because  he  has  destroyed  himself. 
Surely  it  is  fool's  doctrine  that  a  man  must 
24 


The  Amount. 

be  busy  giving  joys  to  others  all  he  can, 
for  he  has  the  power  to  do  nothing  else, 
and  so  come  to  naught  even  in  that. 

But,  friend,  I  mean  not  a  physical  can, 
but  a  moral.  True,  a  man  may  empty  gold 
or  food  or  books  into  the  sea.  He  has 
them;  they  are  his;  he  stands  on  a  wall  or  a 
ship-side;  'tis  but  a  turn  of  the  wrist;  he 
can  do  it.  Yet  if  he  consider  of  it,  if  he 
weigh  the  act,  if  he  put  it  in  place  in  his 
mind  and  compare  it  with  wisdom  and  rea- 
son, then  he  can  not  do  it;  and  the  moral 
inability  outreaches  all  the  physical  power, 
so  that  no  more  he  can  do  it  than  if  he 
were  tied;  and  in  truth  his  hand  is  held 
tight  by  his  mind.  If  there  be  a  poor  hun- 
gry wayfarer  somewhere,  and  two  men  pass 
by,  and  one  of  them  has  no  food  in  his 
wallet  nor  money  in  his  purse,  and  the 
other  has  both  in  plenty,  but  a  hard  heart, 
unpitying  of  others  and  gripping  his  own 
possessions  tightly,  there  is  then  no  differ- 
ence in  them  as  to  ability,  and  no  power 
in  either  to  relieve  the  famishing  poor  man. 
One  no  more  can  than  the  other.  There- 
fore, when  I  say  I  must  do  the  positive 
part  of  kindness,  to  make  joys  abound,  all 
I  can,  and  there  is  no  limit  but  the  end  of 
my  power,  I  mean  not  to  speak  to  myself 
as  if  I  were  a  brute  force  only,  pitted 
against  so  much  or  so  much  weight  of 
25 


The  Amount. 

things  which  the  so  much  brute  force  is 
able  to  toss  about  and  away.  If  I  must  do 
kindness  in  the  positive  part  thereof  all  1 
can,  this  means  not  that  I  must  wear  away 
all  my  time  and  substance  therein,  for  this 
I  can  not  do,  if  I  take  account  of  justice 
and  reason.  I  am  such  a  creature  that  to 
take  thought  of  justice  and  reason  may  tie 
up  my  hands  so  that  no  more  I  can  do  a 
certain  act  with  them  than  if  they  were 
bound  with  strong  cords.  Therefore,  the 
rule  to  invent  joys  and  pour  them  around 
other  persons  all  I  can,  is  not  an  unsafe 
rule  nor  improvident. 

But  mark  this  now,  that  the  rule  and 
wish  to  do  all  I  can,  is  the  only  one  which 
will  show  me  what  I  can.  Never  shall  I 
know  truly  how  much  I  can  give  unless  it 
be  mightily  in  my  heart  to  give  that  sum 
whatever  it  be.  Can  I  know  where  justice 
and  reason  will  stop  me  unless  I  feel  their 
tug  by  going  to  the  end  of  them?  If  I  say 
not,  "I  will  give  joys  all  I  can,  and  see  to 
it  and  invent  for  it,"  but  say,  "I  will  do 
this  as  much  as  I  must,"  or  "As  much  as 
circumstances  require  of  me,"  or  "As  is 
thrust  in  my  way,"  or  "As  much  as  others 
do  and  as  manners  go,  "it  is  surprising 
how  little  I  shall  deem  required  of  me, 
what  a  small  measure  I  shall  mete  out  for 
my  duty.  Whoso  seeks  to  do  all  he  can 
26 


The  Amount. 

is  in  the  state  of  heart  to  know  truly  what 
he  can,  but  he  whose  point  is  to  do  as  little 
as  he  must  will  think  often  that  he  can  do 
nothing. 

And  how  much  indeed  it  is  to  do  all  we 
can!  Little  or  large,  what  a  vast  sum  it  is! 
This  rule  and  duty  is  the  great  leveler, 
which  brings  all  things  to  our  view  of  one 
size,  as  God  sees  them.  To  do  all  we  can 
is  so  vast  a  sum  in  love  and  kindness,  that 
to  receive  from  one  all  he  can,  how  little  so- 
ever, is  a  much  dearer  thing,  and  a  greater, 
than  to  receive  from  another  only  a  part 
of  what  he  might,  though  it  be  a  great 
amount. 

This  principle  of  the  amount  of  due 
kindness,  that  it  must  be  all  we  can,  is 
the  intent  of  a  story  which  herewith  I  will 
relate: 

When  a  certain  Calif  once  was  roaming 
Bagdad  with  his  vizier,  in  the  disguise  of 
an  oil  merchant,  he  saw  a  wretched,  fam- 
ished beggar  by  the  roadside,  and  over 
him  was  stooping  a  poor  water-carrier. 
"Come  hither,"  cried  the  water-carrier,  as 
soon  as  he  saw  them,  "come  hither  to  this 
man  who  is  faint  from  being  famished,  and 
I  wager  I  will  do  as  much  for  him  with  my 
own  as  you  will."  "You  are  an  impudent 
fellow,"  said  the  Calif,  "to  promise  that 
you,  a  common  water-carrier,  will  do  as 
27 


The  Amount. 

much  for  this  poor  man  as  I  who  am*  a  rich 
oil  merchant."  "Softly,  Master,"  said  the 
water-carrier;  and  therewith  he  drew  out 
one  penny  and  gave  it  to  the  hungry  poor 
man:  "Now,"  said  he  to  the  Calif,  "I 
have  done  all  I  can,  for  the  penny  is  all  I 
have;  let  me  see  you  do  all  you  can;  and 
then  you  will  but  equal  me.  I  said  I  would 
do  as  much  as  you  with  my  own\  only  a 
man's  will  is  his  own,  to  do  all  he  can;  his 
possessions,  wherewith  he  may  work,  are 
all  Allah's, — may  he  be  praised  forever! 
That  is  like  the  answer  of  the  Ant  to  the 
Elephant." 

"What  story  is  that?"  said  the  vizier. 

Then  the  water-carrier  narrated  the  fol- 
lowing: "  An  Elephant  who  was  carrying 
ten  men  looked  at  an  Ant  who  was  bearing 
a  bag  of  eggs  out  of  the  ant-hill.  'You 
poor  contemptible  little  thing/  said  the 
Elephant. 

'You  big,  dull,  logy,  swollen-up  crea- 
ture,' said  the  Ant,  'let  me  see  you  carry 
five  times  your  size  and  weight,  as  I  am 
doing.  But  perhaps  you  are  doing  all  you 
can;  then  we  are  equals;  all  else  is  Allah's 
— may  he  be  praised  forever!' 

'You  are  right,1  said  the  Elephant;  'in 
that  way  the  water-drop  answered  the 
cloud.' 

'  How  was  that?  '  said  the  Ant. 
28 


The  Amount. 

'A  cloud,' replied  the  Elephant,  '  saw 
a  rain-drop,  and  said,  'Poor  falling  thing, 
why  do  you  not  float  as  I  do?*  'I  fall,' 
answered  the  drop,  'because  I  have  come 
to  the  state  of  doing  all  the  good  that  is  in 
me,  my  substance  being  gathered  home 
compactly.  You  float  because  you  are  dis- 
persed abroad  idly.  Therefore,  my  falling 
is  more  than  your  floating,  however  fine 
you  look.'  " 

The  next  day  the  Calif  sent  for  the 
water-carrier  and  made  him  Master  of  the 
Charities;  "For,"  said  he,  "I  must  look 
after  the  poor  of  the  city,  and  the  man 
whose  view  is  that  I  must  do  this  all  I  can 
is  the  one  who  will  learn  truly  how  much  I 
can." 


29 


The  Discipline. 


V. 

An  ancient  Stoic  said  we  must  keep  in 
mind  continually  that  "men  are  not  born 
wise  but  have  to  become  so."  This  is  to 
bethought  of  also  concerning  kindness  and 
love.  "What!"  you  will  say,  "are  men 
born,  then,  with  no  more  feeling  than 
knowledge?  Come  they  hither  and  set 
forth  with  no  more  love  than  wisdom?" 
Truly,  friend,  I  think  that  very  much  it  is 
so,  if  not  altogether.  Much  have  I  ob- 
served men  on  this  point,  to  see  whether 
love  has  the  advantage  of  wisdom  in  being 
given  to  men  without  labor  and  discipline; 
and  to  my  seeing,  it  is  as  little  a  free  gift  as 
knowledge  is,  and  waits  to  be  acquired  no 
less  than  wisdom.  Nay,  I  have  become 
persuaded  that  a  great  store  of  ill  and  of 
pain  in  the  world  runs  like  water  from  this 
one  fountain,  that  men  think  love  belongs 
to  them  so  by  nature  that  it  will  thrive  and 
come  to  its  fruit  without  discipline  of 
themselves  in  it.  Yet  this  is  no  more  so 
than  with  knowledge  or  wisdom  or  music 
or  any  art,  or  any  beautiful  and  good  thing. 
30 


The  Discipline. 

But  appears  not  love  in  the  very  begin- 
ning, comes  it  not  forth  at  once  and  strong- 
ly in  the  child,  as  soon  as  the  infant,  while 
yet  speechless,  can  evince  himself  at  all? 
It  is  so,  indeed;  and  so  it  is  with  wisdom, 
if  we  include  therein  the  common  instincts 
and  openings  of  knowledge  and  the  many 
items  of  apprehension  needful  for  self- 
preservation,  such  as  to  avoid  pits  and 
falls  and  fire,  and  to  seek  food  or  to  creep 
into  a  shelter.  For  these  appear  with  the 
first  pushes  of  sense,  or  very  quickly  are 
gotten;  and  in  our  brute  fellow  beings,  and 
even  in  the  insects,  such  knowledge  much 
more  is  born  with  them  than  with  us,  or 
gotten  far  more  quickly  and  wonderfully. 
But  it  is  of  the  higher  knowledge  and  wis- 
dom that  we  speak  when  we  say  "Men  are 
not  born  wise,  but  have  to  become  so." 
And  this  is  true  no  less  of  the  higher  love 
and  real  kindness. 

But  let  us  distinguish.  Kindness,  as  I 
have  said,  has  two  parts;  the  negative, 
which  is  unwillingness  to  give  pain  and  a 
tendency  to  relieve  suffering  when  we  be- 
hold it;  and  the  positive,  which  is  a  con- 
cern and  consideration  how  to  give  joys, 
and  an  active  going  about  it.  Now,  the 
negative  part  seems  to  be  born  with  us  in 
some  plenty,  in  our  present  stage  of  moral 
unfolding.  We  come  hither  with  the  ad- 
31 


The  Discipline. 

vantage  of  being  not  cruel;  we  delight  not 
in  seeing  pain,  nay,  we  shrink  from  it. 
This  is  to  be  taken  with  some  abatement, 
and  "pity  'tis  'tis  true;"  for,  as  I  have  said, 
there  is  much  cruel  sport  of  many  kinds, 
like  pigeon-shooting  and  some  kinds  of 
hunting,  in  which,  if  there  be  no  pleasure 
in  giving  pain,  at  least  it  is  inflicted  indif- 
ferently and  lessens  not  the  sport.  Yet, 
even  with  all  reserve,  we  have  come  to 
this  in  the  moral  evolving  of  mankind,  that 
we  are  born  with  a  good  share  of  the  neg- 
ative kindness.  But  the  positive  kindness 
comes  of  discipline.  To  observe  other 
persons,  with  thought  whether  there  be 
a  chink  for  a  kindness  from  us  in  their 
lot  at  the  moment;  to  set  a  high  value  on 
joys;  to  count  a  good  pleasure  a  precious 
thing;  to  invent  a  plan  how  we  may  make 
a  good  surprise,  give  a  leap  of  delight  to 
some  one,  drop  benefit  at  some  one's 
feet  like  a  staff  for  the  weary,  or  dewy 
love  like  a  rose  at  morning;  and  to  go 
about  to  do  these  things  when  they  are 
planned,  to  take  trouble  and  time,  steps, 
work,  expense,  to  do  them, — this  kindness 
comes  only  by  reflection,  conscience,  labor 
and  discipline.  I  have  said  in  the  chap- 
ters foregoing  that  kindness  is  a  royal 
thing,  a  splendor  greater  than  any  rank  of 
kindred;  that  there  is  no  proof  of  love  but 
32 


The  Discipline. 

the  deed  of  love, — as  said  the  apostle,  "Let 
us  not  love  in  word,  neither  with  the  tongue, 
but  in  deed  and  truth;"  and  that  there  is  no 
limit  of  the  law  of  kindness  but  power,  so 
that  in  kindness  we  must  do  all  we  can,  and 
fall  not  short  of  our  utmost,  and  study  to 
know  what  our  power  may  be;  these  things 
have  gone  before  herein,  I  say,  and  every 
one  of  them  is  a  point  of  will.  They  come 
not  save  by  willing  and  striving  unto  them. 
Loving-kindness  is  a  fruit  of  discipline  by 
virtue  of  the  second  part,  the  positive.  No 
man  becomes  kind  but  by  labor.  If  we 
trust  to  impulse,  without  labor  on  our- 
selves, we  may  become  not  unkind;  but  that 
is  not  the  same  as  to  be  kind. 

A  certain  Dervis,  famous  for  his  piety 
and  learning,  came  in  his  travels,  to  a 
certain  town  where  he  called  the  people 
together  and  preached  to  them.  After 
the  sermon,  a  man  approached  him  and 
said: 

"Holy  Dervis,  peace  be  with  you!  I 
give  you  my  thanks  for  the  blessed  words 
you  have  spoken." 

The  Dervis  answered,  "Is  not  your  name 
Hassan?" 

"Yea,"  replied  the  man,  "but  how  do 
you  know  me,  holy  Dervis?" 

"Know,"  said  the  Dervis,  "that  three 
days  back  in  my  journey  I  sojourned  for  a 
33 


The  Discipline. 

day  in  your  village,  and  I  beheld  your*  wife 
and  spoke  with  her." 

"Allah  be  praised!"  cried  Hassan.  "How 
did  my  wife  look?" 

"Very  beautiful,"  said  the  Dervis. 

"That,"  said  Hassan,  "she  cannot  help. 
How  did  she  seem  to  you  in  the  things 
wherein  she  has  chpice  and  can  do  good 
or  evil?" 

"She  appeared  gentle  and  pleasant  in 
manner,"  answered  the  Dervis. 

"That  again,"  said  Hassan,  "she  is 
compelled  to  be,  for  she  attended  to  her 
parents'  instruction  and  learned  to  rever- 
ence the  elders." 

"But  I  saw  that  she  was  charitable  to 
the  poor,"  said  the  Dervis. 

"In  that  too,"  said  Hassan,  "she  is 
what  she  must  be,  for  she  has  so  soft  and 
kind  a  heart  that  she  cannot  resist  any 
supplication." 

The  Dervis  smiled.  "I  noticed,"  he 
said,  "that  she  was  very  religious.  She 
listened  with  fervor  to  my  discourse." 

"How  can  she  choose  as  to  that?"  cried 
Hassan,  "for  she  has  a  nature  so  pious 
that  the  stars  in  the  heavens  at  night  fill 
her  eyes  with  tears." 

"I  observed  also  that  she  was  very  duti- 
ful," said  the  Dervis,  "for  she  cared  well 
for  your  children." 

84 


The  Discipline. 

"Neither  can  she  do  otherwise  in  that," 
answered  Hassan,  "for  she  has  a  conscience 
so  tender  that  any  evil  fills  her  with  terror 
and  grief. " 

"But  tell  me,  my  son,"  said  the  Dervis, 
"what  are  the  things  in  which  she  has 
choice  and  can  do  good  or  evil?" 

But  to  this  Hassan  made  no  answer,  for 
he  could  not  think  of  anything  and  knew 
not  what  to  say. 

"You  deceive  yourself ,  my  son,"  said  the 
Dervis,  after  waiting  a  little.  "Think  not 
that  any  good  thing  comes  without  labor 
and  prayer.  You  behold  all  the  graces, 
but  you  see  not  the  inward  labor  by  which 
they  exist.  Even  the  beauty  of  the  face  is 
only  the  victory  of  the  soul.  When  you 
return  home,  salute  your  children  with  joy 
and  your  wife  with  reverence,  and  believe 
that  she  is  not  good  without  prayer  and 
endeavor." 


35 


A  Labor  of  Love. 


VI. 

It  is  possible  to  begin  a  day  with  rapture, 
and  so  begin  I  this  day. 

I  am  writing  daily  at  early  morning.  I 
have  no  other  time.  "The  cares  that 
infest  the  day "  stir  up  their  camp  about 
me  all  the  working  hours  till  late  evening 
before  they  "  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs 
and  as  silently  steal  away."  Therefore, 
when  I  had  become  like  a  full  well  with 
the  sister-song  in  me,  which  had  risen  to 
the  light  of  the  brim  and  no  more  could 
be  confined  but  must  flow  out  over,  there 
was  no  way  whereby  to  gather  the  drops 
but  to  arise  early  at  morn  to  fetch  the 
filled  vessels  from  the  well-side.  Besides, 
I  was  resolved  to  keep  this  little  book 
from  my  Dozen  till  it  should  be  all 
done.  Daily  thereupon  I  began  to  sit  me 
for  one  hour  at  my  desk  before  breakfast, 
and  write  in  the  light  of  the  morning. 
It  is  seclusion  and  quiet.  My  sister  is 
table-busy.  The  Arabs  have  not  gathered. 
The  freshness  of  morning  is  a  dew  on  my 
thoughts.  To  the  young  day, — nay,  not 
36 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

even  young  yet,  but  a  very  child,  warm,  yet 
brisk,  a  flush  without  a  taint  of  fever — my 
thoughts  come  forth  as  to  a  child  they 
come,  by  nature,  and  sallying  gladly  "from 
the  round  tower  of  my  heart,"  as  the  poet 
saith. 

Now,  it  is  with  a  singular  joy  of  spirit  that 
I  sit  me  down  to  write  this  morning;  and 
when  this  joy,  rejoicing  like  a  child  danc- 
ing, comes  at  early  morning,  it  must  be  by 
effect  of  yesterday.  Yesterday's  twilight 
refracts  around  the  sphere  of  sleep  to  be  the 
dawning  of  to-day.  My  yesterday  was  a 
day  for  memory  to  feed  on.  In  earth  and 
sky  it  was  one  of  those  days  of  perfect 
glow  which  report  a  heavenly  tropics  from 
which  they  have  been  transported,  but 
cooled  in  the  descent  through  space.  How 
delicious  was  the  temperate  warmth  of  it, 
the  rich,  serious,  reserved  sun-heat!  And 
my  soul  was  glad.  The  day  before,  indeed, 
shadows  which  had  been  thick,  had  begun 
to  take  themselves  away,  like  clouds 
swarming  seaward  to  fall  into  the  ocean. 
But  yesterday  what  so  had  begun  was  ful- 
filled. The  shadows  fled  utterly,  each  one 
bidding  me  farewell  with  a  caress,  like 
swarthy  friends  departing.  The  light  on 
my  heart  was  like  the  seeding  of  a  field, 
and  so  swiftly  the  shoots  of  joy  sprang  and 
flowered  that  the  day  was  one  blooming- 
37 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

slope  to  the  still  waters  of  the  evening. 
Even  my  failures,  faults,  errors,  ceased 
their  threats  and  all  but  smiled  on  me  the 
day  long.  Naught  could  extinguish  my 
quiet  joy,  my  simple  exultation.  I  can 
pierce  with  my  eye  but  a  little  way  into 
the  fog  of  questions  which  encloses  me 
round  about.  I  steer  my  little  boat  with 
pain.  Rocks  are  to  right  and  shoals  to  left. 
Difficulties,  problems,  anxieties,  wishes 
without  means  and  wants  without  wishes, 
cares,  misgivings,  obscurity,  claims  with- 
out resources  and  demands  without  claims 
— all  these  are  thick  as  their  wont  is,  very 
thick,  around  me  and  before  me.  But  they 
mattered  not  yesterday.  They  could  not 
disturb  me.  Nay,  they  had  power  to 
stay  the  stream  of  my  joy  no  more  than  a 
babe's  finger  in  a  river.  The  day  was  my 
minister,  the  living  air  waited  on  me  as  if 
I  were  a  king.  No  Grecian  was  ever 
stronger  of  limb  than  was  I  in  my  walking, 
nor  Aurora  more  "rosy-fingered"  to 
Homer  than  to  me,  nor  the  Hours  scatter- 
ing more  blossoms  in  Virgil's  Song  or 
Raphael's  vision.  So  passed  the  hours  and 
events  over  me,  as  if  the  sky  were  a  vast 
organ  and  these  its  melodies,  wonderful, 
but  counterpointed  to  a  harmony  more 
wonderful.  Then  came  mild  evening  on. 
The  far  and  fading  sounds  charmed  me, 
38 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

withdrawing  into  murmurs  as  the  light  into 
shadows.  I  enjoyed  the  softened  rustle  of 
the  town  nestling  to  its  domestic  rest. 
My  lamp  shone  like  wisdom.  My  books 
looked  at  me  friend-like.  My  desk  failed 
me  not,  and  I  was  pleased  to  say  to  myself, 
"This  sound  oak  wrill  fail  not  some  other 
who  will  sit  at  it,  very  like,  when  this  body 
of  mine  shall  have  use  of  it  no  more."  My 
pen  was  like  a  blossoming  rod  or  a  living 
wand.  Then  drew  unto  me  the  images  of 
the  dear  who  are  near  about  me,  or  of  the 
far  absent  who  are  dear;  and  a  soft  voice 
said  within  me,  "  Peace  be  with  us!  " 

So  was  yesterday  to  the  end — or  without 
end;  and  so  I  say  that  when  we  begin  in 
the  morning  with  a  singular  joy,  as  this 
morning  I  have,  it  is  by  effect  of  a  yester- 
day, whose  twilight  refracts  around  the 
sphere  of  sleep  to  be  this  day's  dawn. 

"Peace  be  with  us" — ah!  it  was  no 
dream-voice,  but  the  living  voice  of  a  dear 
body  that  said  the  words;  a  gentle  frame 
compacted  of  earth's  lovely  substances, 
and  almost  as  precious  to  me  as  the  spirit 
of  love  and  truth  that  lives  in  it — my  lov- 
ing and  delicate  Sister.  When  the  fine 
hours  of  yesterday  had  come  to  stars  and 
shadows,  I  stretched  me  on  a  low  ottoman 
in  the  veranda  and  was  giving  myself  to 
friend-dreams,  as  I  have  said,  when  came 
39 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

my  Dozen,  drew  a  low  chair  to  my  side, 
facing  me,  sat  her  down,  and  said,  "  Peace 
be  with  us,"  also  at  the  moment  laying  her 
hand  for  an  instant  over  my  eyes  and  with- 
drawing it  with  a  little  downward  sweep. 

Never  from  any  other  have  I  heard  that 
greeting.  The  ' <  Pax  vobiscum  "  of  priest, 
or  sometimes  of  jolly  friend,  is  common. 
To  you  the  good  wish  is;  "  Peace  be  with 
you" — so  the  form  is.  But  my  Sister  says 
always  "  Peace  be  with  us,"  as  if  there 
could  be  no  peace  sole,  '  but  only  twin. 
Neither  ever  have  I  had  from  another,  nor 
seen  anywhere,  that  strange  caress,  the 
hand  laid  over  my  eyes  for  an  instant  with 
touch  like  air,  and  lifted  away  downward, 
like  a  clearing  of  vision;  and  in  truth  my 
eyes  ought  to  be  cleared  of  all  selfishness 
before  looking  into  hers. 

So  sat  she  by  me,  saying  naught  after 
1  (  Peace  be  with  us,"  and  I,  being  tired, 
very  blissfully,  was  given  to  silence  under 
the  stars  and  the  pluming  shadows.  And 
now  have  I  still  the  crowning  bliss  to 
tell  of  all  the  blissful  day.  Presently  my 
Dozen  arose  and  went  away,  withdrawing 
as  she  did  so,  the  low  chair  to  a  spot  be- 
yond the  end  of  the  ottoman,  behind  my 
head.  Soon  she  came  back  and  sat  her 
again,  and  I  was  conscious  of  her  more  by 
love  than  by  sound,  when  suddenly  crept, 
40 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

half-timidly  and  appealingly,  yet  richly 
and  firmly,  an  array  of  musical  chords  out 
on  the  air,  then  a  short  figured  introduc- 
tion, then  a  melody,  "Muss  i>  denn"  a 
favorite  with  me,  played  very  tenderly  and 
perfectly  on  that  most  appealing  of  instru- 
ments in  good  hands,  the  guitar  of  Spain? 

I  spoke  not,  nor  indeed  could  I,  for  sur- 
prise and  love.  When  my  Dozen  had 
played  the  tune,  she  continued  into  an  in- 
terlude and  then  repeated  the  melody,  and 
ceased.  Still  said  not  I  a  word  nor  moved. 
I  had  come  to  my  senses,  and  suppressed 
an  exclamation.  How  knew  I  her  pretty 
plan  and  what  steps  she  had  devised  for 
discovering  her  art  to  me?  I  would  wait 
her  pleasure  and  not  break  in  on  it.  After 
a  little  silence  she  played  again,  this  time 
a  melody  of  old  romance,  with  a  drum  and 
other  devices  of  the  pretty  instrument  em- 
ployed in  it;  and  so  one  piece  after  another 
she  played  to  me  charmingly  for  a  half- 
hour,  while  I  stirred  not,  except  that  I  was 
careful  by  an  intelligent  murmur  now  and 
then  to  show  that  I  was  not  asleep  but 
entranced. 

Then  my  Sister  laid  aside  her  guitar — 
fell  on  her  knees  by  me.  I  could  feel 
her  cheek  flush  with  the  exercise  bodily 
and  spiritual.  I  put  my  arm  about  her 
and  a  hand  on  her  head,  silently  waiting 
41 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

for  her  to  make  her  own  end  of  it  all; 
which  she  'did  thus  simply — 

"  I  shall  play  better  by  and  by." 

"Better?"  I  cried;  "Why,  thou  hast 
played  wondrously;  thy  fingers  on  the 
strings  have  been  like  breezes  on  the  tree 
tops.  But  what  is  all  this?  Kow  came 
this  art  to  thy  hand?  Tell  me  of  it,  my 
sweet  Sister,  my  Dozen." 

Then  she  reminded  me  of  an  evening  a 
year  ago,  like  to  this  one,  when  I  had  laid 
me  as  now  under  stars  and  veranda-roof, 
tired  and  musing,  and  she  had  come  as 
her  wont  was  and  sat  down  by  me  in  the  low 
chair.  Sometimes  she  came  with  all  man- 
ner of  blithe  noises,  carols  and  rustles  and 
tapping  feet,  sometimes  quietly;  nor  ever 
did  amiss,  for  whether  one  way  or  the 
other,  either  she  knew  mysteriously  to  meet 
my  mood  or  she  drew  me  into  hers;  nor 
ever  knew  I  which  it  was,  but  only  always 
that  she  was  right.  That  night  she  sat  in 
silence. 

At  last,  "  Thou  art  a  sweet  quiet,"  said  I. 

"I  would  I  were  a  sweet  sound,"  she 
answered;  "for  a  fine  music  is  a  silence 
and  something  more." 

"Ah!  yes,"  said  I,  "and  this  day  have  I 

heard  it.     Thou  knowest,  Marian,  that  this 

morning  came  a  note  from  our  lovely  Dr. 

Agatha  Hickes,  asking  me  to   come  to  the 

42 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

hospital.  So  this  evening  at  the  edge  of 
twilight  I  went.  She  wished  me  to  see 
a  young  mother  and  child  there,  to  be- 
speak my  interest  by  letter  in  a  possible 
country  home  for  her — thou  knowest — at 
the  Clover  Farm,  and  I  have  written  the 
letter  which  I  think  will  bring  a  pleasing 
answer.  After  the  visit  to  the  nursery,  Dr. 
Agatha  took  me  about  among  the  patients; 
and  I  tell  thee,  dear  Dozen,  it  was  an  an- 
gelic progress.  If  meeting  her  anywhere 
thou  hast  joy  in  her,  as  thou  knowest,  to 
go  with  her  there  is  to  have  a  joy  rising  on 
itself,  like  one  billow  on  another.  It  was 
a  heavenly  sight  of  kindness  and  love  to 
behold  her  go  from  one  to  another  of  the 
sick  and  aching  people.  With  a  touch  or 
two,  as  deft  as  a  whiff  of  air,  she  refreshed 
some  bed-clothing,  or  smoothed  or  turned 
a  pillow.  Anon  she  laid  her  palm  on  a 
flushed  forehead;  or  again  felt  a  pulse,  or 
took  a  hand,  or  curled  aside  a  lock  of  hair. 
All  with  a  few  words  wondrous  for  joined 
sympathy  and  cheeriness,  sometimes  in 
English,  sometimes  German,  as  either 
would  be  mother-tongue.  Her  very 
shadow  seemed  a  ray,  not  a  shade,  and  the 
sick  faces  awoke  like  pictures  in  a  dark 
place  when  a  lamp  is  brought  in.  Hope 
went  before  her,  Light  came  with  her, 
Peace  followed  her. 

43 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

Soon  broke  on  my  sense  a  music.  It  lay 
in  the  air  like  a  diffusion,  as  light  does 
under  clouds,  no  source  of  it  being  vis- 
ible. It  was  like  a  rill  entering  a  fen,  gone 
as  a  running  course,  but  become  a  spread 
of  vapor  like  a  cloud  meshing  with  the 
earth.  "I  will  take  you  to  them,"  said 
Dr.  Agatha.  "They  are  a  sister  and  a 
brother,  Spaniards.  There  were  two  other 
brothers;  and  if  they  were  like  to  this 
younger  sick  one,  they  loved  their  sister 
worshipfully.  They  went  off  westward  by 
two  paths,  to  look  for  land.  Both  were 
seized  with  a  swift  malady,  The  girl  was 
writing  pitifully  to  each  of  them  in  turn, 
asking  to  be  told  why  she  heard  not  from 
the  other;  and  they  both  were  dead.  Be- 
fore word  of  this  desolation  reached  her, 
she  had  brought  hither  the  younger  one, 
with  fever — plainly  the  nursling  of  them 
all;  and  he  knows  not  of  the  death  of  the 
others."  With  this  we  came  to  the  bed. 
He  was  a  lad  of  twenty  years,  mayhap; 
far  gone  with  fever  and  the  drying  of  life's 
fountains.  Plainly  the  brother  and  sister 
were  of  good  nurture;  there  was  a  fine- 
ness. The  sick  lad's  face  had  a  silvery 
light  in  it,  very  ominous,  very  beautiful. 
The  girl  was  slender,  delicate,  with  a  lovely 
spirit  and  much  discipline  showing  under 
the  warm  color  of  her  country,  like  the 
44 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

effective  sweet  blue  of  the  sky  under  a  crim- 
son dawn.  The  music  was  of  the  sister's 
guitar;  and  it  was  exceeding  beautiful  and 
wonderful.  'Twas  then  I  had  the  same 
thought  which  just  now  thou  hast  uttered, 
dear  Marian,  that  music  has  a  silence  and 
something  more.  For  the  sister's  playing 
had  the  very  silence  of  the  coming  shadow 
in  it,  and  of  the  others  already  fallen. 
She  changed  the  music  as  I  listened,  from  a 
tender  melody  to  a  blithe  whirl  with  the 
very  tripping  of  gay  feet  in  it;  but  the 
same  stillness  was  therein,  like  the  quiet 
and  pathos  of  twinkling  stars.  It  recalled 
to  me  what  our  friend  Franklin  said  last 
evening  to  us — thou  wilt  remember — of 
Mozart's  music,  that  however  gay  it  be,  in 
its  gayest  and  most  lightsome  pranks,  its 
careerings  as  of  birds  paired  with  breezes, 
always  there  is  an  appeal  and  a  pathos. 
'Twas  the  most  haunting  music — I  mean 
the  Spanish  sister's  guitar — that  ever  I 
have  heard,  and  I  fear  that  by  the  holiness 
of  the  spectacle  I  was  not  stilled  so  but 
I  brought  away  a  din  of  selfishness  in 
me;  for  I  conceived  what  delight  it  were, 
what  rest  and  refreshment,  and  source  of 
fancies  and  thoughtful  dreams,  if  my 
Dozen,  my  Sister,  so  could  play  to  me  on 
that  lovely  instrument.  Ah!  thou  see'st 
my  selfishness,  dearest  Marian — to  wish 
45 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

thy  'refined  gold  gilded,'  the  'lily'  of 
thee  '  painted/  a  'perfume  thrown  on  the 
violet '  of  thee,  a  '  hue  added  to  the  rain- 
bow,' and  'the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven' 
in  thee,  thy  perfect  sister-love,  '  garnished 
with  a  taper  light! '  Well,  well!  " 

Hereat  my  Dozen  looked  wondrous 
pleased;  which  I  thought  strange;  for  it 
were  more  like  her  to  be  grieved  that  she 
could  not  play  to  me,  than  pleased  because 
I  wished  that  she  could. 

All  this  befell  a  year  ago;  and  now  in 
truth  had  my  Dozen  played  to  me  as  lus- 
trously as  my  memory  of  that  music  shines! 
Now  had  my  wish  to  lay  me  after  labor  to  a 
resting  eddied  about  with  music,  come  to 
pass  like  a  fairy-gift! 

"Come,"  I  cried  to  my  Sister,  "confess 
thee.  What  is  this?  Thou  rogue!  thou 
secrecy!  thou  naughty  mystery!  thou  am- 
bush! Knowest  not  that  hidings  are  for- 
bidden in  this  house?  Ah!  knowest  not 
that  all  is  to  be  between  us  like  the  air  to 
birds'  wings  or  the  water  to  fishes,  a  com- 
mon vehicle  shared  in  every  particle? 
Knowest  not?  Shrive  thyself  now!" 

"A  fine  thing  in  thee,  truly,"  said  Sister, 
"  to  be  so  full  of  such  claim!  thou,  with 
all  thy  tricks  and  plots  and  wiles,  as  thick 
as  sun-rays.  By  which  as  thou  knowest,  I 
have  been  driven  to  name  thee  Sir  Prize, 
46 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

— my  only  bit  of  wit — because  thou  pelt- 
test  me  with  thy  surprises  in  such  man- 
ner! " 

-  "  Pah!  "  said  I,  "all  my  tricks  and  plots, 
as  thou  callest  my  innocences,  put  together, 
amount  not  to  such  as  this  of  thine.  Con- 
fess, I  say,  unfold,  relate,  describe,  and 
quickly! " 

"  But  never  hadst  thou  more  to  tell  me 
of  the  Spanish  sister  and  brother?"  said 
Marian. 

"No,"  said  I,  "when  I  went  thither 
after  a  fortnight,  they  were  gone;  the 
brother  had  died." 

"  But  I  went  to  them  next  day  and  made 
friends  with  the  sister,"  said  Marian. 
"  Margarita  is  her  name.  I  engaged  her 
to  teach  me  her  music,  and  she  was  very 
willing.  She  told  me  of  a  guitar  which 
was  very  good  that  hung  for  sale  in  a  loan- 
shop,  for  a  small  price,  and  she  obtained 
it  for  me  at  my  wish.  For  a  year  she  has 
taught  me  weekly.  That  is  all." 

"  But  the  payment  for  the  lessons,"  said 
I,  "  whence  was  that?  We  have  so  little.7' 

"  Dost  forget  my  small  store  put  by?  " 

"But  that  was  for " 

"  Hush!     A  foolish  vanity.      Could  it  be 

used  better  than  to  fill  my  hands  with  an 

invisible  beauty  of  skill  and  my  heart  with 

a  most  visible  joy  (I  am  sure  it  were  visi- 

47 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

ble  if  thou  couldst  get  at  it),  to  be  sweet 
sounds  and  light  and  dreams  unto  thee?  " 

"And  a  unity  in  us,  dearest  Marian,"  I 
said,  deeply  moved,  "a  unity  in  us. 
Surely  thou  lovest  it  too." 

"  It  has  been  an  increasing  charm  to  me 
and  is  now  an  exceeding  delight,"  she 
answered. 

"But  the  time,"  said  I.  "Thou  wert 
busy  enough  before.  Thy  day  already  was 
like  a  fresh  nut  packed  with  sound  meat. 
There  was  no  room  for  more." 

"Nay,  time  is  not  like  a  shell  but  like 
a  heart.  Fill  it  full  with  one  love,  and 
thou  hast  but  stretched  it  to  give  room  for 
another.  Didst  ever  know  time  that  would 
not  stretch?  Now,  time  and  heart  and  life 
being  so  filled  with  my  Brother  were  en- 
larged the  more  for  music." 

"Ay,  but  a  minute  is  a  minute  and  no 
more,  and  - 

"Oh,  well,"  said  my  Dozen,  "  I  got  me 
up  an  hour  earlier  in  the  morning  and 
hastened  a  bit.  Love-work  is  spry  work. 
And  for  the  practicing,  why,  thou  art 
not  always  a  baggage  in  the  house,  thou 
knowest.  Thou  goest  out  daily." 

"An  hour  earlier  in  the  morning!  "  cried 
I — "  like  to  me  for  my  Sister-book." 

"What  is  that?  "  said  Sister,  quickly. 

It  was  too  late  to  get  back  the  flown 
48 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

words  to  their  cage.  Unwary  in  my  de- 
light, I  had  let  out  my  secret,  like  a  linnet 
from  a  wicker,  and  Dozen's  ear  was  not 
slow  to  it.  But  I  put  a  bold  face  on  it. 

Said  I,  with  a  frown,  "  What!  wilt  thou 
be  curious?  wilt  question  me?  Go  to!  go 
to!  Not  a  line  shalt  thou  see  of  it  till  I 
have  brought  it  to  the  end,  and  wrought 
it  over,  and  put  it  to  labor  once  and  again. 
Then  shall  thy  chaste  fancy  take  note  of  it, 
and  amend  me. 

"A  fine  consistency  thou!"  cried  Mar- 
ian. "Thou  secrecy!  thou  naughty  mys- 
tery! thou  ambush!  Knowest  not,  etc., 
etc.  And  thy  fine  figures  of  the  equal  air 
for  birds  and  water  for  fishes — ah!  ha!  " 

"Pooh!  pooh!"  said  I;  "what  says  a 
wise  man — A  prying  mind  is  like  thorns,  it 
either  catches  rags  or  makes  them." 

"  But  applies  not  that  equally  to  thy  own 
curiosity?  " 

"By  no  means;  for  I  first  have  applied 
it  to  thee  and  there's  none  left  for  applying 
to  me.  .  Therefore  I  will  bear  patiently  the 
sore  of  my  curiosity,  but  thou  shalt  be 
cured  of  thine." 

"Oh!" 

"In  proof,"  said  I,  "tell  me  of  thy  teach- 
er, the  Spanish  maiden.  Was  she  to  thy 
mind,  as  acquaintance  ripened?  Was  she 
overflowed  with  thy  heart?  Whatever  is 
49 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

washed  in  thy  love  must  be  white  at  first 
and  it  comes  out  whiter,  like  a  lily  laid  in 
a  swan's  breast." 

"She  was  lovely,  Brother.  Her  music 
was  not  fairer  or  gentler.  The  lessons  be- 
came charming  hours  of  affection  to  me. 
Yet  always  she  had  a  reserve,  a  distance; 
not  proud  so  much  as  tender,  like  haze  in 
a  far  meadow.  I  could  not  enter  it.  She 
had  taken  her  brother's  mortal  part  to  the 
crematory,  and  the  ashes  were  in  a  small 
beautiful  bronze  vase  engraved  with  his 
name  which  always  was  on  a  corner  of  the 
low  mantel  of  her  room,  and  the  western  sun 
always  was  streaming  on  it  at  my  lesson- 
hour.  Above  the  vase  hung  the  cage  of 
her  bird,  a  beautiful  songful  linnet,  with 
a  'lay  of  love'  indeed,  as  the  poet  calls 
it;  for  sometimes  the  lesson  would  be 
hindered  by  the  bird,  who  would  join  in 
the  music.  The  cage  door  always  was 
open  and  the  bird  often  out,  flying  about 
the  room.  During  the  lesson  he  liked 
to  be  on  Margarita's  shoulder  or  hand 
and  thence  pipe  his  wilful  duet  with  my 
playing,  till  Margarita  would  throw  a 
gauze  over  him  which  stilled  him.  The 
loving  creature  became  used  to  me  during 
my  year  of  lessons  and  would  come  to  me 
as  freely  as  to  his  mistress,  and  always 
greeted  me  with  a  chirp  and  by  flying  to 
50 


A  Labor  cf  Love. 

me  as  soon  as  I  entered.  The  room  was 
very  clean,  but  plain  and  poor.  It  was 
manifest  she  had  strained  no  little  to  ac- 
quire that  sacred  bronze  urn.  One  day  I 
perceived  she  was  not  feeling  well — indeed 
often  she  drooped,  though  bravely.  She 
asked  me  not  to  come  for  one  week  or  till 
she  should  sead  for  me.  Three  weeks 
passed  and  I  heard  not.  Then  I  sought 
her — 'twas  yesterday;  but  the  little  room 
was  shut.  She  was  gone  and  no  one 
thereabout  could  tell  me  of  her." 

"Surely  we  shall  find  her  again, "  said  I. 
"She  will  come  back." 

"Oh!  Brother,  I  long  for  it,"  said  my 
Dozen;  "my  heart  is  sad  with  wishing  her. 
She  became  very  sister-like  to  me.  Yet  she 
was  proud,  and  never  admitted  me  to  any 
troubles,  pains  or  privations." 

I  took  my  Sister's  hand  and  looked 
at  it. 

"This  little  hand,"  said  I,  "looks  no 
otherwise  than  as  before;  but  what  a  dif- 
ference! I  am  reminded  of  friend  Roper's 
remark  (thou  wilt  remember)  when  he 
stretched  forth  his  right  hand  before  me 
and  said,  'That  hand  looks  like  any  other, 
but  it  is  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars  to  me 
by  reason  of  the  invisible  mechanical  skill 
in  it' — a  fine  thing  to  say,  Sister.  What  a 
glory  the  hand  is!" 

51 


A  Labor  of  Love. 

"I  remember — truly  a  noble  thing  to 
say." 

"But  who  can  compute  the  value  of  this 
hand,  this  faithful  small  implement  of  thy 
love,  Marian?  who  can  put  a  value  on  the 
rest,  peace,  joy  and  refreshing  of  mind  in 
me — nay,  selfish  fellow  that  I  am,  in  us — 
which  lies  in  its  skill,  like  balm  in  the 
Bayberry,  exuded  by  a  touch?  Take 
thine  instrument  again,  .  dearest  Sister; 
play  to  me  some  more.  To  grand  music 
thy  guitar  compares  as  to  'the  bards  sub- 
lime/ compares  'the  humbler  poet  whose 
song  gushed  out  from  his  heart.'  Play  to 
me.  Ah!  the  delight!  And  sit  where  I 
can  see  thee  too.  The  eye  and  music  con- 
sort well.  Play  as  thou  wilt.  Ramble  in 
melodies.  Thy  music  will  hang  up  in  my 
mind  like  Melilot  in  a  room,  breathing 
balm  by  being  housed." 


52 


The  Invisible  Heart. 


VII. 

Strange  that  I  thought  not  of  the  hos- 
pital; nor  did  my  Sister. 

Yesterday,  immediately  after  the  morn- 
meal,  came  a  messenger  from  Dr.  Agatha, 
bidding  me  come  to  the  hospital  at  once. 
When  I  arrived  there,  the  Doctor  told  me 
she  had  sent  for  me  for  the  Spanish  girl 
whose  music  so  had  charmed  me  a  year 
ago.  "She  came  hither  some  weeks  ago," 
said  the  kind  physician,  "with  fever,  and 
has  been  very  ill,  but  turned  convalescent, 
and  we  thought  she  was  recovering.  Sud- 
denly last  night  befell  a  change  for  the 
worse,  with  great  sinking,  and  now  she  is 
going  fast.  She  has  refused  all  along  to 
have  any  friend  sent  for,  but  at  the  last 
hour  something  bade  me  call  you  without 
asking  her.  It  can  do  no  harm.  She  is 
too  near  the  mystical  door  to  be  distressed, 
and  possibly  a  new  kind  presence  may  be 
like  a  fresh  breeze  to  spread  her  wings 
on." 

"You  have  done  better  than  you  know," 
said  I;  "a  good  angel  led  you."  And  I 
53 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

told  her  of  my  sister's   music-hours  with 
Margarita. 

Immediately  I  was  by  her,  where  she  lay 
a  little  propped  with  pillows  to  stay  up  her 
head,  as  she  had  desired.  I  knelt  at  the 
little  bed  and  said  quietly  and  cheerfully, 
"I  am  the  brother  of  Marian  who  had 
music  lessons  of  you." 

The  closed  eyes  opened  and  kindled. 

"She  has  grieved  after  you,"  said  I. 
"She  would  have  hastened  to  you  like  a 
sister  if  she  had  known  you  were  here." 

Again  the  eyes  kindled  and  this  time  a 
smile  followed,  faint,  but  with  no  taint  of 
sadness.  Then  her  eyes  turned  from  one 
to  another  of  the  three  things  present 
which  belonged  to  her,  the  bronze  urn, 
her  guitar,  the  linnet  in  his  cage,  and  then 
came  back  to  my  face  with  an  invoking 
look. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  give  the  guitar  and 
bird  from  you  to  my  Sister,  and  shall  we 
keep  and  guard  the  urn?" 

A  glad  and  grateful  look  gave  me  full 
assurance.  Then  she  suddenly  grew  a 
little  whiter  and  there  was  a  slight  spasm 
of  the  mouth. 

"About  yourself,"  said  I  quickly,  "have 
you  no  wish?" 

The  lips  moved,  and    bending  very  close 
I  caught  the  words — 
51 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

"No  choice — because— no  way." 

I  knew  she  meant  no  money.  I  told  her 
in  a  glad  tone  that  she  should  have  my 
grateful  care,  because  she  so  had  blessed 
our  home  with  her  love  and  music.  '  'Would 
you  not  like"  said  I,  "to  have  this  body 
you  are  dropping  exhaled  to  the  air  with 
flaming  purity,  as  you  did  with  your  broth- 
er's, and  the  ashes  mingled  in  the  bronze 
urn  with  his,  and  your  name  engraved  on 
it  with  his?" 

A  delightful  joy  broke  in  her  face  and 
her  eyes  thanked  me  infinitely. 

"It  shall  be  so,"  said  I. 

Then  as  if  that  sudden  unexpected  vast 
delight  were  too  much  for  the  frail  frame, 
the  spirit  made  wings  of  it  and  flew  at  once. 
The  flight  shook  the  body  a  trifle,  as  a  bird 
does  a  twig  in  launching  from  it.  Then 
all  was  still,  and  nothing  woful. 

When  I  told  my  dear  Sister  what  had 
happened,  her  tears  flowed  womanly.  She 
received  with  grateful  tenderness  the  lega- 
cies, the  splendid  antique  guitar,  and  the 
linnet, — which  delicate  little  creature  I  per- 
ceived at  once  knew  my  Sister  and  showed 
it  by  many  chirps,  flutterings,  and  cries  of 
love,  and  instantly  alighted  on  her  finger 
which  Marian  thrust  into  the  cage.  Forth- 
with his  cage  was  opened  and  he  was  given 
the  liberty  of  the  room,  of  which  his  first 
55 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

use  was  to  alight  gn  Marian's  shoulder  and 
peck  at  her  ear  and  mouth.  The  trust, 
also,  the  bronze  urn,  my  Sister  received 
reverently,  and  placed  it  on  the  corner  of 
the  mantel  in  our  study  whereon  the  west- 
ern sun  shone  daily;  for  so  it  had  been 
placed  in  Margarita's  poor  little  room. 
' 'Of ten  did  I  think,"  said  my  Sister  tear- 
t  fully,  "of  trying  to  win  my  sweet  young 
teacher  to  come  and  live  with  us.  Once  I 
tried  toward  it,  but  she  shrank  so  quickly 
that  I  thought  the  time  had  not  come.  I 
wish  now  I  had  sought  it  more  boldly. 
Mayhap  I  should  have  won  her,  and  may- 
hap then  she  would  not  have  fallen  ill,  or 
if  she  had  I  could  have  nursed  her." 

Herewith  came  tears  again  with  a  most 
precious  look  of  sorrowing  love,  while  she 
handled  the  guitar  tenderly.  Presently 
she  said,  looking  up,  "Hers  was  a  deep 
nature,  dear  Brother.  There  was  a  great- 
ness in  her.  I  was  not  given  to  explore  it 
much,  with  all  her  sweetness  to  me — and 
she  kissed  me  earnestly  when  she  dis- 
missed me  for  a  little,  as  she  said,  and  it 
was  for  all.  I  am  very  glad  of  that  kiss 
now.  No,  I  could  not  explore  in  her,  but 
she  had  a  deep  life.  I  caught  a  few  bits 
of  light  which  flashed  from  deeps,  reveal- 
ing for  an  instant  a  greatness  of  soul  with 
tragical  experience,  joys  and  sorrows, 
56 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

both  great.  She  was  like  a  rich  delicate 
vessel  of  adamant  in  which  lay  a  jewel'such  «• 
as  never  was  known,  shining  a  little 
through  the  adamant,  but  neither  its  shape 
nor  light  to  be  discerned  truly,  and  the 
adamant  not  to  be  pierced  nor  broken  to 
get  unto  the  jewel." 

These  words  of  my  Sister  clung  to  me 
and  set  me  brooding  on  the  unknown  life 
of  each  person.  Respect  unto  it  hath 
great  place  in  the  law  of  kindness.  Mari- 
an's words  attended  me  in  the  streets  of 
the  great  city  whither  I  went  in  the  after- 
noon. I  looked  more  lovingly  and  intent- 
ly at  the  faces  of  the  hurrying  people. 
"That  living  flood,"  says  Teufelsdr6ckhr 
"pouring  through  these  streets,  of  all  qual- 
ities and  ages,  knowest  thou  whence  it  is 
coming,  whither  it  is  going?  Aus  der 
Ewigkeit,  zu  der  Ewigkeit  hin.  From  eter- 
nity onwards  to  Eternity."  And  what  a, 
thing,  what  a  fact,  awful,  tender,  mysteri- 
ous, are  the  drops  in  this  flood,  the  per- 
sons. I  walked  the  thoroughfares  and 
searched  the  faces,  under  the  spell  of  my 
Sister's  soul,  not  like  a  naturalist  to  whom. 
all  is  grist,  but  like  a  miner  who  looks  only 
to  the  gold.  What  unknown  saints,  I 
thought,  were  passing  me  in  the  throngs! 
What  brothers,  careful,  gentle,  loving  their 
sisters  tenderly  and  manfully,  protecting,, 
57 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

respecting.  What  fathers,  devoted,  toil- 
» ing  by  day  and  by  much  of  the  night  for 
their  poor  nests  of  wife  and  children,  faith- 
ful, kind,  not  counting  fatigue,  denying 
themselves,  indulgent,  sympathetic,  heroic, 
obscure.  What  sisters  as  lovely  before 
God  as  my  own,  following  some  wayward 
or  selfish  or  sullen  fellow  of  a  brother,  and 
never  giving  him  up,  enduring,  working, 
saving  for  him,  giving  to  him,  Hiding  tears, 
— because  he  had  lain  on  the  same  mother's 
breast.  What  lovers,  lads  and  girls,  to 
whom  love  was  devout,  reverential,  tender, 
great,  an  exaltation,  a  being  crowned,  a 
glory  and  praise  above  all  ambitions,  trap- 
pings, fames.  What  mothers,  out  on 
anxious  errands,  now  hastening  back  to 
bend,  like  the  mercy  of  God,  over  the  sick 
or  the  lacking  or  the  ungrateful.  All  these 
and  other  saints  pass  me,  bearing  great 
tragedies,  which  they,  the  true  poets,  sing 
unto  heaven  by  their  bearing  of  them,  and 
no  other  poets  can  sing  nor  have  the  might 
to  tell — what  incidents,  what  struggles, 
what  vast  covered  sorrows  boxed  in  pa- 
tience and  lidded  with  smiles;  what  cour- 
age, daring  deeds  and  thoughts,  unspeak- 
able natural  longings  in  holy  quiet  kept, 
like  a  tragedy  enacted  at  a  fane  or  shrine! 
Here  passed  me  great  sins  which  had 
come  to  sincere  repentance  and  penance. 
58 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

Here  was  religion  walking  by  me  in  its  most 
simple  devout  form — "  How  know  I  what 
prayers  ye  lifted  this  morn,"  said  I,  looking 
into  some  faces,  "at  what  poor  bedsides 
kneeling,  or  under  rich  tapestries  where 
wealth  excludes  neither  woes  nor  tempta- 
tions; and  what  thoughts  unto  God  are 
walking  by  me  in  the  humble  trust  and  self- 
watchfulness  and  many  a  silent  uplift  of 
souls;  and  what  prayers  of  lowly  praise  for 
one  more  day's  safety  accomplished  ye  will 
lift  in  shabby  stalls  or  under  fine  hangings 
to-night,  with  the  same  temptations,  pains, 
struggles  and  spiritual  victories  in  the 
poverty  and  in  the  riches,  and  some  kinds 
in  each  unknown  to  the  other  lot!  " 

These  worlds  and  mysteries  of  saintly 
things  passed  me  in  the  unknown  lives  of 
each  person,  and  other  things  black  and 
dreadful — all  passing,  beautiful,  tremend- 
ous, terrible,  in  the  persons  who  hastened 
by  me  like  phantoms.  O  let  me  stand 
before  each  one  with  awe  for  what  may  be 
in  him,  what  nature,  feeling,  experience! 

When  we  read  the  tender  or  the  grand 
passages  of  poets  we  are  appalled  at  the 
depth  or  the  majesty  of  the  experience.  If 
we  read  the  Indian  serenade  of  Shelley 
which  Poe  so  much  admired,  which  indeed 
has  a  very  delicate  atmosphere  of  love;  or  if 
in  his  "Prometheus  Unbound"  we  read 
59 


The  Invisible  Heart, 


such    descriptions  as  in   the  talk   between 

Panthea  and    Asia    in    scene    third  of  the 

second  act;  or  such   lines   as   these  in  the 

same  poem: 

Panthea.     Alas,    I  looked  forth   twice,  but   will  no 
more. 

Ionia.     What  dost  thou  see? 

Panthea.  A»woful  sight;  a  youth 

With  patient  looks  nailed  to  the  crucifix. 

Ionia.     What  next? 

Panthea.              The  heaven  around,  the  earth  below 
Was  peopled  with  thick  shapes  of  human  death, 
All  horrible  and  wrought  by  human  hands, 
And  some  appeared  the  work  of  human  hearts, 
For  men  were  slowly  killed  by  frowns  and  smiles; 
And  oth^r  sights  too  foul  to  speak  and  live, 
Were  wandering  by, 

or  if  we  read  the  amazing  and  glorious 
picture  of  Beatrice  in  her  dreadful  despair, 
writhing  in  the  "clinging,  black,  contam- 
inating mist,"  whereby 

The  beautiful  blue  heaven  is  flecked  with  blood, 
The  sunshine  on  the  floor  is  black, 

or  when  she  cries  defiant  to  the  judge: 

Tortures!     Turn 

The  rack  henceforth  into  a  spinning  wheel! 
Torture  your  dog,  that  he  may  tell  when  last 
He  lapped  the  blood  his  master  shed — not  me! 
My  pangs  are  of  the  mind  and  of  the  heart 
And  of  the  soul!     Ay,  of  the  inmost  soul 
Which  weeps  within  tears  as  of  burning  gall  ! 

or  as  she  is  in  her  wildest  anguish  followed 

by  despair,  followed  again  by  a  high  calm 

60 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

after  the  death  sentence,  or  in  the  child- 
like simplicity  of  the  pathos  of  the  words 
with  which  she  ends  the  grand  terrific 
play;  or,  if  we  take  the  calm,  religious 
Wordsworth,  as  he  speaks  in  the  glowing 
lines  in  which  he  describes  how  the  wand- 
erer, when  a  boy,  "from  the  naked  top 
of  some  bold  highland  beheld  the  sun 
rise  up  and  bathe  the  world  in  light;"  or  in 
his  great  ode  of  immortal  life;  or  in  the 
soaring  of  his  soul  from  the  banks  of  Wye, 
perhaps  the  most  majestic  flight  of  all  his 
holy  verse, — in  these,  and  all  such  glorious 
readings,  we  stand  wonder-struck,  awed, 
glorified  before  the  deeps  of  the  soul. 
Now  such  experience  is  not  an  inven- 
tion of  the  poet,  but  a  record.  He  con- 
trives not,  matches  not  part  to  part,  as 
inventors  plan  machines;  but  only  writes 
down  the  miracle  of  the  things  that  strug- 
gle within  him,  the  history  of  what  the 
poet  sees  and  feels  and  is.  Therefore, 
often  in  reading  these  bursts  of  emotion, 
of  pathos  or  of  thought,  I  have  had  the 
poet  rise  as  a  vision  before  me,  as  the 
place  or  the  sphere  in  creation  in  which 
the  great  things  came  to  pass.  But  when 
I  have  looked  closer  at  him,  I  have  found 
him  with  calm  manner  and  appearance, 
as  if  by  my  intrusion  and  looking  on  him 
grown  quiet  and  common  and  shrouded  in 
Gl 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

himself.  If  one  should  come  on  Shelley 
with  the  pen  in  his  hand  streaming  with  the 
agonies  of  Beatrice,  launching  the  sublim- 
ities of  the  Titan's  patience,  or  played 
around  and  over  by  the  rainbows  of  the  gor- 
geous scenery  of  Prometheus,  the  poet 
would  drop  that  same  p.en  quietly  and  rise 
from  his  desk  unmoved  and  calm,  with  a 
quiet  eye  and  look  of  polite  address.  I 
should  see  only  a  common  sight,  only  the 
usual  outside  of  men,  while  in  the  soul 
Beatrice,  Panthea,  Asia  and  Prometheus 
would  be  consorting  in  illimitable  heavens. 
Often  have  I  thought  thus,  often  thus  have 
visited  in  imagination  the  great  writers, 
and  have  returned  again  humbled,  and  up- 
lifted too,  with  a  more  tender  regard  for 
human  beings.  Wordsworth  exclaims: 

Oh,  many  are  the  poets  that  are  sown 

By  nature;  men  endowed  with  highest  gifts, 

The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine, 

Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  verse. 

How  can  I  judge  by  the  exterior,  how 
shall  I  tell  what  is  in  any  soul  by  the  com- 
mon inertia  of  the  clay?  How  shall  I 
know  what  passes  inside?  If  I  could  meet 
Wordsworth  and  pass  him  by,  and  no  Tin- 
tern  Abbey  rise  in  my  mind's  eye;  if  I 
could  meet  Shelley  and  toss  pebbles  with 
him  into  the  Genoese  gulf,  and  never  know 
I  was  with  the  sky-fire  of  the  prayer  at 
62 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

Prometheus's  rock,  how  know  I  what 
may  be  passing  in  the  mortals  around  me 
— what  deeps  may  lie  beyond  those  pas- 
sive shores  of  bodies — sometimes  what 
storms,  and  wild  or  dreadful  glory  beyond 
sight,  while  the  shores  are  bathed  in  quiet 
sunshine?  Every  one  has  a  vast  deep  in 
him  compared  to  anything  he  may  say  of 
himself.  No  Homer  or  Shakespeare  or 
Milton  ever  uttered  himself,  but  only 
strove,  and  stammered  forth  a  little  of  the 
things  that  were  in  his  sight  in  earth  and 
sky.  What  then  of  the  tongue-tied? — 
those  who  can  only  lift  their  hands  or 
kindle  in  their  eyes  silently?  All  are  poets 
in  deeps  of  struggling  experience,  of  holy 
living,  of  love,  of  sin,  of  repentance,  of 
prayer,  of  valor. 

Sometimes,  these  come  forth  in  few  and 
simple  words,  which  are  rifts  in  clouds. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  said  that  when  he  had 
been  listening  to  the  common  expressions 
of  simple  folk  speaking  their  thoughts  of 
life,  and  of  their  experience  in  their  sim- 
ple sorrows  and  troubles,  sometimes  he 
had  heard  sublimities  in  thought  and  in 
simplicity  of  expression  unequaled  in  his 
knowledge  outside  of  the  Biblical  pages. 
What  can  we  do  but  remember  this  un- 
known and  unshown  part  in  dealing  with 
each  other,  and  treat  every  one  like  a  mys- 
63 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

tery,  with  reverence?  For  neither  can  we 
tell  what  the  child  will  be  nor  what  any 
one  is.  But  a  little  we  are  let  in  and  given 
the  freedom  of  any  one's  body  and  soul. 
We  must  walk  like  St.  Paul  in  the  Athen- 
iian  streets,  with  eyes  and  heart  open  for 
£he  altar  of  the  Unknown  God.  Neither 
;<know  we  what  has  been  in  any  soul, 
'"trailing  what  clouds  of  glory "  or  of 
•shame  it  came  forth;  what  things  it  has 
wrestled  with,  what  struggles  and  pains 
^and  joys  it  has  come  through.  How  can 
-we  stand  by  it  except  as  by  an  Aztec  altar, 
the  huge  blocks  and  mighty  sculp- 
£>,  overgrown  with  forest,  record  a  vast 
vanished  history  whereof  not  even  a  mem- 
cory  remains?  What  hand  graved  those 
^sculptures,  what  muscles  strained  to  roll 
those  huge  fanes  from  the  quarry,  what 
ielt  the  heart  that  drove  the  blood  to  hands 
and  feet?  And  thou  who  art  beside  me, 
what  hath  graven  thee  to  this  shape  or  to 
that,  sometimes  so  strange,  always  so  hid- 
den and  so  awful?  I  have  seen  an  uncouth 
man,  inveterate  and  untimely  in  his  jokes, 
trivial  sometimes;  I  set  him  down  as  little 
^worth,  except  that  he  was  good-natured 
and  behaved  himself  cleanly.  But  there- 
after, one  day,  I  saw  him  burn  with  a  white 
heat  of  generous  and  grand  earnestness, 
jkindle  and  flame  up  to  heaven;  and  all  for 
61 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

love  of  poor,  hard-worked  men  of  whom 
he  thought  and  spoke.  It  was  a  lesson. 
I  came  suddenly  on  the  altar  in  the  Athen- 
ian streets.  Let  me  look  on  every  soul 
which  is  hidden  from  me  in  my  ignorance 
as  perforce  by  ignorance  I  would  look  on 
some  Arabian  manuscript  scribbled  all 
over  on  cover  and  margin  by  a  jester,  or 
perhaps  even  by  a  wanton  hand;  but  hold- 
ing, for  aught  I  can  say,  a  lost  treatise  of 
Averroes. 

"We  are  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
made,"  as  open  as  day,  as  hidden  as  night. 
Beware  what  we  may  come  to,  what  our 
ignorance  may  be!  And  as  a  means  of 
grace,  kindness,  undistorted  heart,  have 
respect  to  the  unknown  life  of  each  person 
and  learn  to  feel  how  another  is  feeling. 
A  man  said  to  me,  "  My  difficulty  in  re- 
fusing a  beggar  or  any  beseeching  person  is 
that,  however  my  judgment  may  instruct 
me,  I  am  feeling  so  intensely  how  more 
intensely  still  the  suppliant  is  wishing 
what  he  asks  and  hanging  on  my  decision." 
This  is  a  beautiful  openness  of  the  win- 
dows, and  it  may  be  into  heavenly  air. 
Can  one  go  very  far  wrong,  be  very  unpiti- 
ful  or  obtuse  or  ignorant,  who  feels  thus 
what  is  outside  his  own  station  or  sensa- 
tions? I  trow  not.  To  have  respect  for 
the  unknown  life  of  each  person  is  to  go 
65 


The  Invisible  Heart. 

far  to  know  all  life  by  sympathy  and  con- 
ception, to  see  as  God  sees. 

My  visit  to  the  city  had  the  purpose  of 
getting  engraved  on  the  bronze  vase  the 
name  of  the  Spanish  maid.  It  is  done. 
This  day,  in  the  late  hours,  toward  twi- 
light, we  shall  hold  a  tender  vespers  for 
her.  We  take  the  mortal  part — changeable, 
perishable,  but  ah!  so  sacred,  so  precious 
— to  the  almost  spiritual  purification  of  the 
flames;  and  when,  save  a  handful  of  sweet 
mineral,  it  all  has  gone  forth  into  the 
wide  air,  we  will  say,  with  very  happy 
meaning  and  sweet  images,  as  one  might 
of  a  dried  rose-petal  which  had  exhaled 
its  color  and  fragrance,  "The  body  returns 
to  the  earth  as  it  was,  but  the  spirit  unto 
God  who  gave  it." 

Dr.  Agatha  will  go  with  us. 


66 


The  Responsibility. 


VIII. 

Kindness  is  a  particular  seemliness  or 
duty  laid  on  every  person.  It  behooves  us 
to  be  kind  by  a  general  law,  that  we  must 
be  gentle  to  fellow  creatures  and  con- 
cerned to  make  them  happy.  But  there 
are  some  specific  facts  which  make  us 
answerable  for  kindness,  chiefly  three: 

First,  I  myself  do  ill  continually.  I  fall 
into  many  sad  errors,  by  which  I  make 
heavy  drafts  on  others'  forbearance;  yes, 
and  even  on  my  own  patience  with  myself, 
unless  I  will  despair  utterly.  Therefore 
how  reasonable  it  is  and  how  beholden  am 
I  and  how  due  it  is  from  me  to  extend  that 
same  kindness  to  others  which  continually 
I  need.  It  is  one  of  the  strange  things  in 
human  nature,  which  is  a  reasoning  nature, 
that  continually  we  do  things  the  most  fool- 
ish and  senseless  without  a  thought  how 
absurd  or  insane  they  look  to  the  eye 
of  reason.  Says  William  Law  in  his 
"Serious  Call/1  "He  that  can  talk  the 
learned  languages  and  repeat  a  great  deal 
of  history,  but  prefers  the  indulgence  of 
67 


Responsibility. 

his  body  to  the  purity  and  perfection  of  his 
soul,  is  in  the  nearest  state  to  that  natural 
who  chooses  a  painted  coat  rather  than  a 
large  estate.  He  is  not  called  a  natural 
by  men;  but  he  must  appear  to  God  and 
heavenly  beings  as  in  a  more  excessive 
state  of  stupidity,  and  will  sooner  or  later 
certainly  appear  so  himself."  But  now,  if 
while  choosing  the  painted  coat  and  flour- 
ishing in  it  ridiculously,  a  man  should  be 
in  a  rage  in  good  earnest  with  any  one 
making  the  same  choice,  and  should  berate 
him  as  a  simpleton,  how  much  more  a  nat- 
ural would  he  appear  then!  Yet  just  so 
does  one  who,  being  often  in  error  himself, 
has  no  pity  nor  aid  nor  kindness  for  those 
who  displease  him.  To  the  eye  of  reason, 
how  more  can  one  condemn  himself,  or  by 
what  greater  folly  invite  harshness  toward 
himself,  than  by  unkind  acts  while  in  his 
heart,  and  with  voice  too,  he  cries  out  for 
mercy  to  himself.  It  is  no  more  than 
reason,  therefore,  and  no  less  than  a  wise 
and  modest  forecast,  as  well  as  beauty  and 
nobleness,  to  act  by  the  saying  of  Pliny, 
"He  is  best  and  purest  who  pardons 
others  as  if  he  himself  sinned  daily,  but 
avoids  sinning  as  if  he  never  pardoned." 
And  be  sure  that  if  he  come  to  that  point, 
of  avoiding  sinning,  it  will  be  by  reason  of 
a  most  faithful  kindness;  for  to  be  unkind, 
68 


Responsibility. 

or  even  to  neglect  to  be  kind  when  God 
has  brought  us  opportunity,  is  a  great  sin. 
Secondly  kindness  is  according  to  simple 
common  sense,  if  we  will  but  consider 
what  Seneca  says,  that  "  He  who  knows 
that  men  are  not  born  wise,  but  have  to 
become  so,  will  never  be  angry  with  the 
erring."  Surely  it  needs  no  great  knowl- 
edge to  see  so  plain  a  fact;  the  more  as 
every  man  can  look  back  to  a  time  when 
he  was  very  foolish  indeed,  or  at  least  far 
from  the  wisdom  which  now  he  has,  and 
did  things  which  now  he  cares  not  to  talk 
of,  seeing  that  they  were  very  silly.  And 
it  is  rational  to  conclude  that  by  and  by 
we  may  attain  a  higher  place  where  much 
that  now  we  hold  by  will  look  to  us,  as  it 
is,  very  ridiculous.  Therefore,  according 
to  common  sense,  we  should  act  by  this 
plain  fact,  that  either  we  must  be  foolish  to 
the  end,  or  else  grow  in  becoming  wise, 
since  we  start  not  so.  And  as  all  are 
stumbling  on  together,  some  more,  some 
less,  but  none  without  staggers  that  will 
look  ungraceful  by  and  by,  how  reasonable 
kindness  is  between  those  who  are  all 
afloat  in  one  boat  of  folly  on  a  wide  sea  of 
effort!  And  how  reasonable  to  return  not 
unkindness  with  the  like,  for  this  is  but  to 
avoid  the  bad  bog  that  another's  flounder- 
ing shows  us. 

69 


Responsibility. 

It  is  a  third  point  that  if  we  can  not 
teach,  we  have  small  right  to  complain  of 
those  who  go  untaught,  and  if  we  have  no 
art  of  healing,  it  is  but  stripping  bare  our 
own  ignorance  if  we  cry  out  on  those  who 
are  not  cured.  Marcus  Aurelius  says,  "If 
thou  be  able,  teach  others  what  is  right; 
but  if  thou  be  not  able,  be  mindful  that 
meekness  is  given  thee  for  this."  Here 
stands  by  a  man  doing  some  wrong.  He 
is  a  dwelling  of  some  meanness,  malice, 
treachery,  violence,  or  of  some  madness, 
like  rage  or  drunkenness.  If  we  be  able 
to  cure  him,  it  may  be  not  ill  to  let  ap- 
pear our  disgust  for  the  disease  of  which 
we  have  rid  him.  Or  if  we  have  the 
heavenly  power  to  show  him  the  right  way 
and  impart  strength  to  walk  in  it,  it  may 
be  not  amiss  to  contemn  the  pack  of  sins 
he  has  cast  off.  But  if  there  be  no  healing 
power,  no  virtue  in  us  to  go  out  of  us,  no 
potency  to  teach  or  strengthen,  this  is  a 
cause  for  meekness  in  us,  as  Aurelius  says. 
If,  as  reason  is,  we  be  busy  with  right  shame 
for  our  weakness,  we  shall  have  little  time 
and  less  heart  to  rage  at  another's.  For 
if  there  be  a  real,  noble,  lofty  strength 
in  us,  with  no  abatement  by  vanity,  nor 
pretence,  nor  sanctimony,  but  a  simple, 
clear,  sincere,  kind  manhood,  meet  whom 
you  may,  and  whether  he  will  or  no,  or 
70 


Responsibility. 

whether  he  show  it  or  not,  'tis  like  he  will 
take  a  share  of  your  strength  in  some 
measure,  and  lay  an  unfelt  hand  on  you  to 
stay  himself  till  he  can  stand  alone.  I  say 
not  this  surely  will  be  so  in  every  instance. 
Natures  differ  very  widely.  "There  be  land 
rats  and  water  rats,"  wolves  in  the  woods 
and  wolves  in  the  streets,  beasts  in  the 
jungle  and  beasts  in  the  city,  and  they  will 
act  by  their  natures  wherevlr  they  be.  As 
not  alone  a  red  sky  is  necessary  to  rosy 
sight,  but  an  eye  able  to  perceive  the 
color,  so  there  must  be  a  nature  impres- 
sionable and  a  power  to  drink  of  moral  in- 
fluence; else  one  will  stand  in  vain  at  the 
overflow  of  holy  persons  and  will  not  be 
moved  by  the  goodness  of  the  good,  any 
more  than  an  eye  by  a  lovely  color  for 
which  it  has  no  store  of  vibrations.  For 
as  a  wolf  will  devour  a  child  that  smiles  in 
his  face,  so  will  some  men  do  and  have 
done.  How  many  belike  were  there  in 
the  mob  crying,  "Crucify  him,"  how  many, 
that  neither  were  moved  nor  could  be  by 
the  sweet  meekness  and  the  heavenly 
goodness  of  the  Nazarene?  Wherefore,  I 
say  (for  I  would  speak  carefully  and  in 
limits)  it  is  not  sure  that  any  one  will  be 
moved  and  won  by  sincere  kindness  and 
nobleness.  But  I  say  that  seldom  we  can 
be  sure  whether  'tis  the  unmoved  one  who 
71 


Responsibility. 

is  insensible  or  we  who  have  not  the  pure 
simplicity  of  goodness  ;  nor  can  we  tell 
surely  how  long  a  patience  is  needful  to 
give  fair  trial  of  any  one.  This  much, 
therefore,  seems  very  plain,  and  a  good 
guide  for  us,  and  a  warning  to  be  very 
careful  and  slow,  namely,  that  if  a  traveler 
have  fallen  by  the  way  under  a  heavy  load, 
and  we  be  of  such  puny  muscles  as  can 
not  lift  the  burden  by  so  much  as  a  penny- 
weight, it  is  unreasonableness,  which  is 
folly,  and  also  it  is  unkind,  cruel  folly,  to 
be  full  of  fury  that  he  can  not  toss  it  up 
alone,  and  even  to  add  to  that  heavy 
weight  a  heap  of  reproach  or  contempt. 
Therefore  let  us  be  able  to  teach,  or  bear 
very  long  and  patiently  with  those  who  go 
untaught. 

A  fable  of  the  vine  has  a  good  touch  of 
this  doctrine.  A  man  said  to  a  vine,  "  See 
how  that  idler  throws  your  fruit  about,  let- 
ting fall  more  than  he  eats  and  treading  it 
under  foot.  You  should  not  bear  grapes 
for  him."  "  But  I  am  not  sure,"  said  the 
vine,  "  whether  he  be  an  ill  man  or  I  be  a 
poor  vine  that  can  not  win  him  by  good 
grapes.  That  is  what  the  thistle  said  to 
the  donkey."  "  What  story  is  that,"  said 
the  man.  Whereupon  the  vine  narrated: 
"A  donkey  said  to  a  thistle,  '  I  must  eat 
you.'  '  But  eat  my  leaves,  spare  my  flow- 
72 


Responsibility. 

ers/ said  the  thistle.  <  But  the  flower  is 
the  sweeter/  answered  the  donkey.  '  But 
it  is  seed,' said  the  thistle,  'and  if  you 
forego  it  now,  it  will  make  more  thistles 
for  you  and  others/  'No,  I  must  have 
the  sweet  morsel  now,'  cried  the  donkey. 
The  thistle  sighed  and  said,  '  I  know  not 
whether  this  be  because  you  are  a  donkey 
or  because  I  am  a  poor,  ill-grown  thistle; 
so  after  all  I  am  pleased  to  be  sweet  to 
you  in  dying.'  So"  said  the  vine,  "  I  must 
put  forth  my  grapes  again  and  again  be- 
cause it  is  my  part,  however  the  people 
may  use  them;  and  belike  if  the  grapes 
become  better,  the  people  may  be  per- 
suaded to  use  them  more  carefully." 


73 


Meanness  of  Unkindness. 


IX. 

Can  aught  be  plainer  than  that  it  is  but 
a  mean  spirit  which  will  be  unkind?  For 
what  is  unkindness  but  a  selfish  or  cruel 
use  of  some  power  fallen  to  us  by  strength 
or  by  some  chance?  Now,  he  who  will  be 
cruel  when  he  has  power  will  fawn  when 
he  is  under  power. 

It  is  an  old  saying,  "It  is  excellent  to 
have  a  giant's  strength,  but  tyrannous  to 
use  it  like  a  giant."  Now  if  the  tyrannous 
giant  were  pared  down  into  a  dwarf,  as  a 
carver  may  cut  down  an  image  by  shaving 
it  away,  the  manikin,  I  am  very  sure, 
would  be  large  enough  to  hold  all  the 
courage  that  so  strutted  in  the  big  carcass. 

Seneca  says  well  that  no  one  can  be  des- 
pised by  others  unless  he  has, his  own  con- 
tempt, and  that  "no  one  is  more  ready  to 
tread  others  under  his  feet  than  he  who 
has  become  used  to  taking  offences."  This 
is  a  principle  much  used  by  composers 
of  plays  whereby  to  obtain  those  sud- 
den contrasts  in  character  or  action  which 
they  know  to  inhere  in  mean  dispositions. 
74 


Meanness  of  Unkindness. 

Thus  have  I  seen  a  servant  kicked  by  his 
master  for  some  inattention,  and  standing 
muttering  indignantly  at  the  meanness  of 
the  affront.  Presently  enters  a  boy  to  call 
the  man,  whereupon  the  servant  kicks  the 
stripling  in  his  turn  for  interrupting  him. 
But  as  surely  as  the  man  took  a  kick  from 
the  master  before  giving  one  to  the  boy, 
so  will  the  master  take  one  servilely  from 
his  master,  from  king  or  governor  or  any 
ruler  over  him.  For  it  is  the  same  mean- 
ness to  give  a  kick  and  to  take  it;  nor  ever 
will  one  give  it  till  he  has  taken  it,  or  has 
the  servility  in  him  to  do  so. 

Wherefore  if  you  see  any  one  unkind 
when  he  is  in  power — if,  being  a  wit,  he 
make  a  butt  of  slow  parts;  if,  being  large, 
he  be  a  fury  among  the  small;  if,  being 
rich,  he  parade  himself  and  flaunt  his  lux- 
uries before  the  poor — be  sure  he  is  craven 
at  heart.  Trust  not  him  for  any  service; 
hang  not  on  him  for  any  office  or  stead- 
fastness of  soul. 

Yet  put  him  not  away,  bar  him  not  from 
your  goodness.  For  the  more  servile  he  is, 
the  more  he  needs  of  two  good  things,  pity 
and  patience. 

I  have  run  upon  a  fable  of  that  mean- 
ness which  is  like  to  show  forth  if  much 
power  be  confided  to  a  small  spirit.  In  a 
forest  there  dwelt  a  hermit.  One  day  a 
75 


Meanness  of  Unkindness. 

crow  flew  over  the  hermit's  head  and  from 
his  bill  fell  a  mouse  at  the  hermit's  feet. 
He  had  compassion  on  it,  and  took  it  up, 
fed  it  with  rice  and  revived  it.  Soon  he 
saw  that  a  cat  alarmed  it  and  was  seeking 
to  destroy  it.  So  by  the  sacred  powers  of 
a  saint,  he  metamorphosed  his  mouse  into 
a  cat.  But  the  cat  was  afraid  of  his  dog, 
so  the  saint  changed  him  into  a  dog.  The 
dog  being  terrified  at  a  bear,  at  last  he 
was  transformed  into  a  lion.  But  the 
holy  man  regarded  the  lion  as  in  no  way 
superior  to  his  mouse.  Now  the  people 
who  came  to  visit  the  hermit  used  to  tell 
one  another  that  the  lion  which  they  saw 
had  been  made  so  by  the  power  of  the 
saint,  from  a  mouse.  This  being  over- 
heard by  the  li-on,  he  was  uneasy  and 
ashamed  of  his  extraction,  and  he  said  to 
himself,  As  long  as  this  hermit  is  alive,  the 
disgraceful  story  of  my  former  state  will 
be  brought  to  my  ears.  Saying  which,  he 
went  to  kill  his  protector.  But  the  holy 
man  penetrated  his  design  with  his  super- 
natural eye. 

"  Be  a  mouse  again,"  said  the  hermit, 
and  instantly  he  was  reduced  to  his  first 
estate.  "Ah,"  said  the  hermit,  "you 
were  only  a  mouse  looking  like  a  lion.  If 
truly  you  had  been  that  noble  beast,  you 
would  not  have  turned  on  your  benefactor." 
76 


Meanness  of  Unkindness. 

"Alas,"  said  the  mouse  with  a  sad  squeak, 
"  I  am  like  the  ape  that  was  brought  down 
by  going  up."  "What  is  that  story?" 
the  hermit  asked;  and  the  mouse  narrated: 
"An  ape  who  was  more  cunning  than  his 
fellows  and  had  a  good  countenance,  prac- 
ticed walking  upright,  got  him  garments, 
carefully  kept  his  mouth  closed,  and 
passed  himself  off  for  a  man.  This  went 
well  till  one  day,  being  puffed  up  by  his  new 
station,  he  determined  to  take  a  high  seat. 
Then  the  people  looked  up  at  him  care- 
fully in  the  high  place  and  saw  his  tail; 
and  they  drove  him  out."  "Ah!"  said 
the  hermit,  "  thou  say'st  well,  little  mouse. 
If  a  small  soul  be  thrust  into  a  large  sta- 
tion, he  will  be  either  foolish  or  cruel;  and 
either  one  is  a  show  of  his  meanness." 


77 


Reciprocity. 


X. 

Reciprocity  means  the  interchange  of 
actions,  offices,  influence.  It  may  be  be- 
tween two  or  many.  It  has  a  good  law 
of  its  own,  which  is  like  to  a  law  or  fact  in 
physics,  to-wit,  that  action  and  reaction  are 
equal.  If  you  pound  an  anvil  with  a  ham- 
mer, says  the  philosopher,  the  hammer  is 
pounded  every  whit  as  much  by  the  anvil. 
Or  if  a  great  heat  be  changed  into  a  motion 
of  some  vast  mass,  the  moving  of  the  mass 
cools  the  heat  by  just  as  much  as  the  heat 
moves  the  mass;  and  if  the  mass  cease 
moving,  then  just  as  much  heat  is  turned 
forth  again  as  was  consumed  in  setting  the 
mass  in  motion.  Or  if  a  stone  be  dropped 
to  the  earth,  the  earth' rises  unto  the  stone 
as  much  as  the  stone  falls  unto  the  earth. 
For  though  the  earth  move  but  an  invisi- 
ble and  insensible  distance,  yet  if  the 
globe  be  conceived  as  divided  into  portions 
of  the  size  of  the  stone,  each  one  of  those 
little  portions  moves  so  far  toward  the  stone 
that  all  of  those  small  distances  together 
make  just  the  length  of  the  stone's  fall.  So 
78 


Reciprocity. 

that  the  earth  meets  the  stone  in  a  manner 
midway. 

Now  this  law  is  observed  very  strictly 
in  all  dealings  and  exchanges.  The  things 
exchanged  must  be  equivalents,  pound  for 
pound  or  the  value  thereof.  In  higher 
matters,  it  is  the  aim  to  give  teachers, 
writers,  artists  their  own  value  again. 
I  mean  they  must  be  paid  for  the  pleas- 
ures they  bring  to  our  firesides  in  sums  that 
will  enable  them  to  adorn  their  own  hearth- 
stones in  like  manner. 

In  yet  higher  matters,  things  of  the 
heart,  we  return  love  for  love,  kindness  for 
kindness.  This  is  simple  Reciprocity. 

But  is  this  the  whole  law  of  these  high- 
est of  dealings,  wherein  precious  boxes 
of  spikenard  are  broken?  What  shall  be 
returned  to  the  unkind?  What  shall  be 
measured  to  those  who  threaten  our  bodies, 
wound  our  feelings,  sting  us  with  their 
tongues,  plant  traps  with  their  gossip?  To 
answer  this  reasonably,  consider  in  what 
way  we  look  on  the  malevolence  we  have 
suffered.  Call  we  it  praiseworthy?  Think 
we  it  graceful,  lovely?  Rather  are  we  not 
very  loud  in  complaints  when  any  one  is 
f roward  or  malicious  ?  If  then  we  denounce 
this  temper  when  some  one  disobliges  us 
with  it,  is  it  not  incredible  folly  if  we 
give  back  to  him  straightway  the  same 
79 


Reciprocity. 

affronts?  This  is  so  strange  a  folly,  so 
outrageous  to  reason,  that  it  can  be 
thought  no  better  than  a  certain  madness 
at  the  moment,  as  any  emotion  is  like  to 
be  if  it  overcome.  For  madness  is  but  an 
overcoming  of  the  reason  by  some  feeling  or 
fancy  or  wish.  And  if  still,  after  the  affront 
has  passed  awhile,  and  we  have  had  time 
to  grow  cool  and  to  collect  ourselves,  we 
be  bent  on  some  reprisal,  to  do  some  in- 
jury in  return,  it  is  no  better  than  a  settled 
madness  and  were  as  worthy  of  confine- 
ment as  any  lunacy.  For  how  can  that 
which  we  are  so  loud  to  call  hideous 
and  hateful  in  another  suddenly  change  to 
excellence  and  comeliness  in  us? 

It  is  the  law  of  reason,  therefore,  that 
kindness  must  be  offered,  and  again  offered, 
and  still  held  out  continually  and  unwear- 
ied, even  to  the  unkind,  ungrateful  and 
injurious.  To  this  law  the  heart  comes 
leaping  like  a  child  to  a  friend.  And  so 
teach  the  sages.  A  very  gracious  author- 
ity has  admonished  us  that  if  we  love  them 
only  that  love  us,  there  is  no  reward  or 
virtue.  Aurelius  says  we  should  "  beware 
of  feeling  toward  the  cruel  as  they  feel 
toward  others; "  and,  says  he,  "  It  is  pe- 
culiarly human  to  love  even  those  who 
do  wrong.  And  this  happens  if  when  they 
err  it  occurs  to  thee  that  they  are  kinsmen, 
80 


Reciprocity. 

and  that  they  err  by  ignorance  and  uninten- 
tionally, and  that  soon  both  of  you  will  die; 
and  above  all  that  the  wrong  doer  has 
done  thee  no  harm,  for  he  has  not  made 
thy  ruling  faculty  worse  than  it  was  be- 
fore." This  is  not  feebleness  nor  servility, 
but  a  nobility  and  vastness  of  character, 
and  very  manly.  Nay,  it  grows  into  the 
divine;  for  it  is  divine,  as  said  the  Master, 
to  cause  the  sun  to  rise  on  the  good  and 
evil  and  to  send  rain  on  the  just  and  the 
unjust.  Seneca  teaches  likewise:  "  My 
kindness  is  not  returned;  how  shall  I  act? 
Like  God,  most  bountiful  author  of  all 
things,  who  begins  to  bless  us  in  our  ignor- 
ance and  keeps  on  doing  so  in  our  ingrati- 
tude." Elsewhere  he  says,  "  The  immor- 
tal Deity  is  neither  willing  nor  able  to 
harm  us,"  for  "  all  his  power  is  to  do 
good,"  and  "no  sane  man  is  afraid  of 
God." 

If  I  may  compare  things  divine  with 
human — and  surely  I  may,  for  as  all  things 
come  forth  from  God,  all  things  must  be 
like  unto  him  and  bear  some  image  of  him 
and  have  some  manner  of  comparison; 
and  in  such  a  probation  I  would  not  say 
that  it  is  comparison  of  things  human  with 
divine,  so  much  as  of  things  divine  with 
Divinity — if  this  I  may  do,  then  a  fine  story 
preserved  of  one  of  the  Sultans  Solyman 
81 


Reciprocity. 

will  be  a  fair  image  of  sound  Tightness  of 
soul  'unto  God,  which  is  void  of  being 
afraid  of  him.  Some  soldiers  had  de- 
spoiled by  night  the  little  farm  of  a  wid- 
owed dame,  and  driven  off  her  sheep. 
Straightway  she  went  to  the  Sultan  and 
made  complaint,  very  simply  and  with 
much  reverence.  "You  must -have  been 
very  sound  asleep,"  said  Solyman,  grimly, 
"if  the  men  could  drive  away  so  many 
sheep  without  your  observation."  Then 
the  woman  looked  at  the  great  monarch 
simply,  void  equally  of  being  bold  and  of 
being  afraid,  and  answered,  "It  is  true, 
sire,  that  I  slept  soundly,  the  hour  being 
my  slumber-time;  but  it  was  with  full  faith 
that  the  king's  eye  was  watching  over  the 
people's  safety." 

In  this  way  our  kindness  ought  to  be  like 
to  Divinity,  that  no  sane  man  could  fear  an- 
other could  do  him  a  hurt,  and  we  should 
be  void  of  all  terror  one  of  another. 


82 


Making  an  Average. 


XL 

"Brother,"  said  my  Sister,  at  breakfast 
yesterday. — 

Ah!  these  morn-meals  with  my  Sister! 
Naught  had  we  but  some  small  and  thin 
biscuit,  baked  apples  with  cream,  and  co- 
coa-cups; but  the  biscuit  were  a  melting 
ambrosia,  the  apples,  done  to  a  golden 
brown,  quivered  on  the  verge  of  liquidity 
and  with  the  cream  became  a  unity  of 
nectar,  and  the  cocoa  was  as  balmy  and  del- 
icate as  a- brew  of  grape-blossoms  unpur 
pled  to  the  fat  fruit.  The  breakfast  room 
receives  the  morning  sun  through  the 
stained  windows  of  a  church  close  against 
it,  so  that  soft  glints  and  tender  lights  flick 
the  white  table.  But  my  Sister  at  her 
place,  so  sweet,  so  cool,  so  kind  and 
bright,  gives  the  chief  light  by  the  light  of 
the  love  of  her  eyes,  and  her  blithe  piety 
(for  always,  however  I  meet  her,  she  af- 
fects me  as  if  on  the  brink  of  beginning  a 
thanksgiving  song)  diffuses  a  fragrance. 
'Tis  a  place  of  flowers,  my  morn-meal, 
from  which  daily  I  cull  a  vase  of  blossoms 
83 


Making  an  Average. 

for  my  study  table,  sometimes  wholly  the 
fragrancies  of  affection,  sometimes  also 
the  foliage  of  thoughts.— 

"  Brother,"  said  my  Dozen,  "  there  is  a 
play  called  The  Merchant  at  the  Academy 
Theatre,  said  to  be  a  good  play,  and  I  want 
to  see  it." 

"  Pooh,"  said  I,  "  I  don't  believe  it  is 
as  good  as  '  The  Merchant  of  Venice.'  " 

My  Sister  opened  her  eyes,  but  said 
with  a  lovely  gravity,  "A  safe  judgment, 
dear,  and  a  wise  Daniel." 

"  Good,  "said  I;  "the  wise  always  are 
safe." 

"It  has  seemed  to  me  of  late,  dear 
Brother,"  said  my  Sister,  with  a  very  de- 
mure gentleness,  "that  thou  hast  attained 
a  high  admiration  of  thyself." 

"Certainly,  my  Dozen,"  said  I,  "  be- 
cause no  one  else  admires  me.  One  must 
keep  up  the  average.  The  man  who  has 
the  most  clear  title  to  admire  himself  is 
he  whom  none  others  admire.*-  Else  were 
all  equality  destroyed  and  everything  topsy- 
turvy. And  it  is  seen  everywhere  that  the 
man  whom  no  other  admires  is  he  whom 
Nature  has  endowed  with  the  best  capacity 
to  admire  himself." 

"Ah!"  said  my  Sister,  "thy  last  sen- 
tence has  brought  thee  to  shore  in  some 
wit.  But  indeed,  Brother,  thy  speaking 
84 


Making  an  Average. 

of  'keeping  up  the  average/ reminds  me 
of  what  our  neighbor  John  Rivers'  wife 
told  me  of  poor  Zack,  yesterday,  and  I 
have  brooded  over  it  no  little." 

"  And  who  is  poor  Zack?"  said  I. 

"  Her  brother  Zackary;  she  calls  him 
poor  Zack.  Thou  must  know  I  made  a 
long  call  there  yesterday,  indeed,  passed 
the  whole  afternoon  with  Mrs.  Rivers 
while  thou  wert  in  the  city.  At  first  we 
sewed,  and  afterward  arranged  flowers. 
She  talked  all  the  time.  She  needs  no 
more  than  a  good  listener  to  wing  up  her 
eloquence.  But  she  is  no  magpie.  She 
talks  well.  And  her  discourse  of  poor 
Zack  cost  her  some  tears  as  well  as  much 
breath." 

"Tell  me  of  him,"  said  I. 

"  She  says  he  is  a  large  man,  generously 
made  everyway,  large  and  impressive  in 
body,  ample  in  mind  and  wide  in  heart, 
and  withal  very  simple  in  his  manners  and 
feelings.  But  his  wife  is  scornful  and 
ambitious,  disparaging,  and  measures  her 
manners  to  people  by  her  conclusions  of 
their  importance.  To  bring  Mrs.  Rivers1 
long  story  to  the  space  of  a  sentence  or 
two — at  first  her  brother  was  very  well-to- 
do,  then  poor,  then  successful  again,  even 
richer  than  before.  During  these  fortunes 
up  and  down,  his  wife  was  haughty  and 
85 


Making  an  Average. 

selfish  in  the  rich  days,  full  of  wails, 
moans,  and  base  mortifications  in  the  poor 
days.  All  of  which  had  a  very  bad  effect 
on  the  son  and  daughter,  now  nineteen 
and  seventeen  years  of  age,  who  came  out 
of  it  as  cold  and  worldly  as  the  mother. 
At  last  they  gave  poor  Zack  the  one  blow 
too  many  and  too  much." 

"Ah!  thou  speakest  a  grave  truth, 
Dozen,"  said  I.  "It  is  one  of  the  risks 
and  scourges  of  the  selfish  and  unloving 
that  never  they  know  when  they  have  come 
to  the  limit  till  they  have  passed  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Marian,  "a  terrible  fact  of 
the  heart.  Love  has  its  conditions  of  liv- 
ing and  its  conditions  of  dying,  like  the 
body,  or  like  reflection,  or  any  other  power 
of  soul.  Well,  so  did  they  to  poor  Zack. 
They  went  on  in  their  ways  till  they  thrust 
them  on  him  once  too  often.  Mrs.  Rivers 
said  that  her  brother,  being  a  large  and 
serious  spirit,  was  attached  warmly  to  his 
church,  and  he  had  in  it  a  class  of  young 
girls  whom  he  had  been  teaching  for  many 
years.  Now,  to  a  party  of  young  people, 
given  by  Zack's  wife  and  children,  all  of 
these  girls  were  bidden  except  one.  That 
one,  moreover,  was  Zack's  special  favorite, 
by  reason  of  her  gentleness,  character  and 
fine  intelligence.  But  she  was  omitted  be- 
cause she  was  a  small  green-grocer's 
86 


Making  an  Average. 

daughter.  This  was  too  much  for  poor 
Zack.  He  said  a  few  indignant  words, 
which  were  received  with  a  dogged  con- 
tempt. Then  his  heart  quite  broke.  He 
said  no  more,  rbut  he  brooded  long  and 
sternly.'* 

"  Again  thou  hast  the  right  word,"  said 
I.  "A  vivid  sternness  seizes  on  one  who, 
after  forbearing  long,  is  given  one  blow 
too  many." 

"The  word  was  Mrs.  Rivers',  dear," 
said  my  Sister,  gently,  "  and  I  quarrel  not 
with  it;  only,  it  must  be  a  due  fitness  of 
judgment,  not  a  mere  stubborn  anger. 
Well,  Zack  settled  on  a  behavior;  after 
brooding  over  it  with  a  sickness  at  his 
heart  for  many  weeks,  said  his  sister — he 
settled  on  a  behavior.  He  fastened  on 
two  principles,  which  he  named,  '  Equal- 
izing things,'  or  '  Making  an  average.' 
He  settled  it  firmly  in  his  mind  that  this 
equalizing  of  things  or  effecting  an  average 
was  one  of  the  ways  in  which  it  was  right 
for  a  man  deliberately  to  essay  a  part  in 
divine  Judgment  and  Providence.  One  of 
the  two  principles  pertained  to  giving  at- 
tention to  others.  He  said  there  was  a 
certain  due  amount  of  consideration,  I 
mean  of  being  thought  for  and  planned 
for,  which  belonged  by  Divine  intention  to 
every  one;  and  this  due  amount  ought  to  be 
87 


Making  an  Average. 

had,  and  no  more.  Now,  if  any  one  thought 
so  much  for  himself  as  to  confer  on  him- 
self that  due  portion,  then  no  one  should 
think  for  him,  because  then  he  would  have 
more  than  his  own  portion,  which  is  the 
same  as  to  get  another's  rightful  portion, 
and  all  is  disordered." 

"  Truly,"  said  I,  "that  was  a  shrewd 
bit  of  thinking  in  poor  Zack.  I  begin  to 
guess  where  thou  art  coming  out.  What 
was  the  second  principle?  " 

"Why,  that  was  the  same,"  said  Mar- 
ian, "only  it  pertained  to  the  bestowal  of 
gifts  and  pleasures.  Zack  said  that  when 
any  persons  had  an  abundance  of  pleas- 
ures, opportunities,  enlivenments,  and  re- 
fused to  share  them  affectionately  with  the 
less  favored,  it  became  the  Providential 
business  of  some  one,  whoever  might  have 
the  power,  to  take  away  a  due  portion  of 
benefits  from  them  for  distribution  to 
others,  thus  to  equalize  things  and  keep  a 
right  average.  And  this  Zackary  said 
should  be  done  quietly  and  privately,  not 
with  lecturing  or  assertion,  and  those  whose 
possible  pleasures  were  withheld,  to  be 
given  to  others,  should  not  be  told  of  their 
losses;  for  this  would  serve  no  good  pur- 
pose and  do  no  more  than  stir  up  content- 
ion; even,  mayhap,  it  might -defeat  the 
equalization  many  times." 
88 


Making  an  Average. 

"This  principle,"  said  I,  "  hath  not 
quite  the  delicacy  of  the  first  one,  but  it  is 
firm  enough.  But  thou  said'st  he  settled 
on  a  behavior." 

"Ay,  so  he  did;  by  which  to  put  in 
practice  the  principles." 

"  Ah!  now  comes  the  fine  part — the  be- 
havior. Human  conduct  is  like  music. 
One  may  theorize,  conceive,  render  a  son- 
ata in  one's  mind;  but  to  perform  it  with  the 
hands  is  another  thing.  And  any  one  may 
do  somewhat  ©f  the  conceiving,  and  many 
may  make  a  very  fair  piece  of  business  of 
it,  how  the  piece  should  be  rendered;  but 
few  can  do  any  performing  at  all.  So  it  is 
in  life's  compositions,  in  the  music  whose 
notes  are  the  footfalls  of  the  daily  walk. 
What  was  poor  Zack's  behavior?  " 

"Mrs.  Rivers  delighted  in  it  hugely,"" 
said  Marian,  "  and  filled  a  long  time  and  a 
hundred  instances  with  unfolding  it.  But 
in  short  it  was  thus:  First,  he  decided 
(and  amply;  he  set  aside  a  large  slice,  his 
sister  said)  how  much  of  his  income  he 
ought  to  devote  to  amusements  and  pleas- 
ures, and  this  he  divided,  with  much  care, 
and  much  consulting  of  his  diary,  between 
winter  pleasures,  concerts,  dramas,  social 
parties,  and  the  like,  and  summer  out- 
ings, boat  excursions,  journeys,  rides,  pic- 
nics, and  the  like.  Thus  he  made  a  fund 
89 


Making:  an  Average. 

to  maintain  and  guide  his  behavior,  and 
took  care  that  the  fund  should  serve  duly 
for  the  whole  year,  each  season  having  its 
own  appropriation." 

"  Truly,  poor  Zack  is  a  man  of  method, " 
said  I. 

"  His  sister  says  he  is  as  regular  in  all 
his  doings  as  the  earth  in  its  path,"  said 
Marian.  "Well  with  this  fund,  he  "set 
about  his  purpose  to  essay  a  part  in  Judg- 
ment and  Providence.  'Why  should  a 
man  be  a  victim,  a  slave,  a  fallen  foe,  tied 
to  the  wheels  and  dragged  along  in  the 
Divine  triumph?  ' — said  he;  <  let  him  take 
his  part  in  it  as  one  of  the  army,  and  pipe 
music  in  the  march,  and  do  his  portion  in- 
telligently, for  justice,  for  delicate  and 
poetic  justice.'  Whereupon  he  ceased 
wholly  to  do  any  suggesting  or  planning  of 
pleasures  for  his  family.  'The  whole 
amount  that  they  ought  to  be  thought  for, 
they  think  for  themselves,'  said  he,  '  there- 
fore I  will  not  think  for  them  too,  for  then 
they  will  be  thought  for  too  much  and  the 
right  order  overthrown.  And  they  do  no 
thinking  at  all  for  any  others;  therefore 
Tvhat  they  fail  in  I  will  supply  by  turning 
:my  thoughts  to  the  others,  and  so  effect  a 
right  average.'  Besides,  he  said  they  had 
a  very  good  time  anyway.  All  manner  of 
pleasant  things,  a  goodly  dwelling,  fine 
90 


Making  an  Average. 

fruits  and  meats,  draperies,  garments,  so- 
cial pleasures,  ease,  enlivenments  sur- 
rounded them,  for  which  he  saw  no  grati- 
tude and  no  affectionate  sharing  of  the 
good  things  with  others.  'Nature,'  said 
poor  Zack,  '  nurses  inequality  of  powers 
because  this  is  the  means  of  progress;  but 
for  that  very  reason  it  is  a  man's  duty  to 
override  inequality  of  powers,  as  much  as 
can  be,  with  an  equalizing  of  pleasures, 
because  this  is  the  way  of  happiness.'  " 

"  Truly,"  said  I,  "  poor  Zack  has  made 
a  good  use  of  '  Evolution.'  " 

"Has  he  not,  Brother?  Now,  it  had 
been  his  way  to  keep  watch  of  the  pleas- 
ant things  that  offered,  good  music,  plays, 
excursions,  and  the  like,  and  if  he  knew 
not  their  value  but  they  had  a  good  air 
with  them,  he  would  take  pains  to  inquire 
about  them,  and  thereupon  speak  of  them 
to  his  family,  and  buy  places  for  them  if 
they  wished.  He  continued  to  watch  and 
inquire  as  before,  and  bought  places  at  the 
good  things,  but  he  spoke  not  of  them  at 
home,  and  the  places  he  gave  to  many  per- 
sons who  not  often  had  such  pleasant 
befallings.  This  was  Zackary's  behavior 
under  the  .first  principle,  namely,  that  as 
his  family  thought  for  themselves  to  the 
whole  of  the  amount  due  them  to  be 
thought  for,  he  would  give  his  thoughts 
91 


Making  an  Average. 

to  others.  But  he  went  further  still  under 
the  second  principle.  If  his  family  woke  up 
of  themselves  and  demanded  to  go  to  some 
amusement,  he  would  provide  it;  but  in- 
stead of  the  best  places,  which  always  be- 
fore had  been  their  privilege,  he  would 
take  less  showy,  but  comfortable  and  good 
places,  and  with  the  money  so  saved 
he  would  give  a  place  at  the  same  en- 
tertainment to  some  person  to  whom  it 
was  a  rare  treat.  If  his  family  wish  to 
give  a  social  party,  he  is  nothing  loth,  but 
he  relentlessly  cuts  down  enough  of  their 
desired  elegancies,  kickshaws,  and  lolli- 
pops, to  provide,  with  the  money  thus 
saved,  some  delightful  outing  for  persons 
not  bidden  to  that  feast,  nor  often  to  any. 
There  is  much  surprise  and  no  little  anger 
over  these  '  parsimonies,'  as  the  sufferers 
call  them;  but  Zackary  says  shortly  that 
he  can  afford  no  more,  and  ends  it.  Be- 
yond a  dim  feeling  that  some  kind  of 
change  has  come  about  which  they  under- 
stand not,  his  family  know  not  their  many 
losses.  Mrs.  Rivers  says  that  poor  Zack 
is  satisfied  well  with  his  invention  and  is 
much  more  at  ease  in  his  mind.  He  calls 
it  'dispensing  poetic  justice' — 'justice' 
because  it  is  right,  and  '  poetic '  because 
they  who  lose  are  so  unwilling.  For 
Zackary  says,  as  I  told  thee,  after  an  old 
92 


Making  an  Average. 

Stoic  (the  Stoics  are  great  favorites  with 
him,  his  sister  avows),  that  whoever  will 
not  walk  of  himself  in  the  Divine  triumph 
is  dragged  at  the  Chariot  wheels,  though 
as  little  he  wot  as  will;  which  is  a  base 
station,  but  '  poetic  justice.'  Zackary 
acknowledges  that  toward  his  family  there 
is  thus  a  certain  contempt  in  his  acts,  and 
their  position  is  a  humiliation,  because 
they  are  dealt  with  like  wayward  and  self- 
ish children;  but  for  this,  he  avers,  there 
is  no  remedy,  and,  if  one  tell  the  whole 
truth,  it  is  a  portion  of  the  'poetic  justice.' 
What  think'st  thou  of  all  that,  Brother?" 

"Indeed,"  said  I,  "there  is  much  to  be 
said." 

"  On  both  sides?  "  cried  my  Sister. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  I,  "  I  must  consider; 
there  is  much  in  it." 

"Well,"  said  Marian,  "I  have  consid- 
ered, and  I  cast  my  vote  for  poor  Zack 
intoto.  How  often  hast  thou  said,  Brother, 
that  it  is  the  most  saving  wisdom  in  life 
to  acknowledge  everything  to  be  what  it  is, 
and  to  treat  it  so.  Acknowledge,  then, 
every  form  of  the  I-am-better-than-thou 
spirit  to  be  what  it  is,  unkindness,  and 
thereupon  mete  out  to  it  the  stubble  that 
is  due  it,  not  the  fruits  of  kindness." 

"Ah!  but,  my  Dozen,  who  shall  judge 
assuredly,  one  above  another?" 
93 


Making  an  Average. 

"  But  we  must  judge,  Brother.  We  can 
not  look  on  all  things  indifferently.  Re- 
member what  our  Saint  Matilda  used  to 
say,  that  it  is  right  to  play  on  the  follies 
of  men,  if  one  do  it  as  an  artist." 

" Which  means,"  said  I,  "without  any 
tincture  of  the  same  folly.  A  fool  chas- 
tising his  own  folly  is  a  humor  much  used 
by  playwrights.  Sir  Anthony  Absolute 
in  a  mighty  rage  commands  his  son  to  be 
calm  as  his  father  is." 

"But  disgust  is  not  bitterness  nor  harsh- 
ness," said  my  Sister.  "  I  think  it  were 
no  ill  in  poor  Zack  if  he  had  a  loathing  of 
the  harsh  vanity  which  he  shut  round  with 
his  < poetic  justice.'  ' 

This  talk  with  Marian  befell  just  after  I 
had  written  the  foregoing  chapter,  "Reci- 
procity." But  for  poor  Zack  and  my  Doz- 
en's view  of  him,  belike  I  should  have 
rested  in  that  chapter  without  further  con- 
sideration or  modification  of  it.  For  surely 
no  principle  can  be  plainer  or  better  than 
that  we  are  to  be  kind  to  the  unkind.  It 
is  a  thought  which  gives  a  good  heart  a 
golden  content.  But  mayhap  the  heart 
may  seize  on  it  too  unwarily.  The  prin- 
ciple needs  specification  by  reason.  Must 
our  behaviors  be  alike  to  the  kind  and  the 
unkind?  No;  for  this  were  to  treat  things 
as  the  same  which  are  different.  In  what 
94 


Making  an  Average. 

manner,  then,  may  our  behaviors  be  as  dif- 
ferent as  the  things?  This  is  a  right  and 
needful  question  touching  the  sweet  grace 
and  duty  of  kindness. 

It  is  not  doubtful  that  there  are  ingrates 
in  the  world;  and  thinking  of  them  it  is* 
matter  of  course  that  we  call  to  mind 
^Esop's  fable,  the  viper  which  was  warmed 
by  the  compassionate  countryman  on  his 
hearth,  and,  being  thawed  thus  from  its 
stiff  and  frozen  condition,  turned  on  its 
benefactor  with  its  fangs. 

Now  the  moral  of  this  story  is,  not  that 
it  is  possible  to  waste  kindness,  but  that 
the  countryman's  act  was  not  rational 
kindness,  and  hence  in  a  way  not  kindness 
at  all.  This  unrational  behavior  occurs 
when  any  creature  is  treated  as  if  it  were 
something  which  it  is  not.  In  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount  there  is  explicit  command 
to  this  effect.  "Give  not  that  which  is 
holy  to  the  dogs,  neither  cast  your  pearls 
before  swine,  lest  haply  they  trample  them 
under  their  feet  and  turn  again  and  rend 
you."  This  is  the  whole  philosophy  in  a 
marvelous  convincing  figure,  in  a  state- 
ment of  the  two  consequences  of  the  folly 
of  doing  as  a  kindness  what  is  so  unfit  to 
the  nature  of  the  recipient  that  it  is  in  fact 
and  effect  not  kindness,  but  only  a  mis- 
taken softness  of  heart.  What  possible 
95 


Making:  an  Average. 

kindness  in  giving  pearls  to  swine?  Pearls 
.are  valuable  and  pearls  are  beautiful,  but 
the  swine  have  no  market  for  their  value 
and  no  feeling  for  their  beauty — like  Bot- 
tom when  the  fairy  queen  offers  to  send 
her  fairies  to  gather  new  nuts  for  him. 
The  ass'  head  on  him  answers:  "  I  would 
rather  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried  peas." 
Now,  the  pearls  not  being  suited  to  the 
swine,  and,  therefore,  no  real  kindness  to 
them  however  soft-hearted  the  donor's  act, 
the  two  consequences  follow:  i. — They 
misuse  the  good  things  already  misused  by 
being  offered  to  them — they  trample  the 
pearls  under  their  feet.  2. — They  are  in- 
grates,  turning  and  rending  the  giver  of 
the  pearls  in  their  rage  that  the  jewels  are 
not  corn  or  other  fodder.  There  are  many 
oriental  maxims  to  this  effect:  "What! 
are  silk  tassels  to  be  tied  to  the  broom?" 
*'  Will  you  give  a  fair  flower  to  a  monkey?" 
"Who  would  cast  rubies  into  a  heap  of  rub- 
bish?" "What!  are  you  giving  ambrosia 
to  a  dog?"  The  rabbins  called  the  deli- 
cate and  deep  meanings  in  the  law  its 
" pearls,"  so  that  the  injunction  not  to 
waste  them  on  swine  is  but  a  highly  figur- 
ative way  of  uttering  the  warning  in  Prov- 
erbs (xxiii.,  10):  "Speak  not  in  the  ears  of 
a  fool,  for  he  will  despise  the  wisdom  of 
thy  words." 

96 


Making  an  Average. 

The  simple  truth  is,  there  are  kinds  of  in- 
fluence which  have  no  rational  application 
to  certain  natures,  and  there  is  nothing 
rational  but  to  treat  every  creature,  a  man 
included,  like  what  he  is,  and  like  what  he 
is  at  the  moment  too,  however  we  may 
wish  he  were  different.  No  good  ever 
comes  of  treating  any  thing  or  creature 
like  what  it  is  not.  If  we  have  an  ingrate 
to  deal  with,  we  are  not  to  think  we 
shall  make  him  grateful  by  treating  him  as 
if  already  he  were  so.  Place  an  ingrate 
on  the  one  hand  and  opposite  to  him  the 
law  of  kindness.  It  is  then  the  wisdom 
and  moral  of  ^Esop  that  we  have  to  study 
rationally  what  the  law  of  kindness  is 
and  commands  in  that  case. 

To  define  kindness  for  this  present  pur- 
pose,— I  think  we  may  say  it  has  two  parts: 
To  do  things  for  another  which  will  bene- 
fit him;  to  do  things  for  another  which 
will  please  him.  Obviously  these  two 
parts  of  kindness  may  not  be  present,  in 
all  cases,  in  the  same  act.  Very  often 
whether  they  can  combine  in  one  act  will 
depend  on  the  character,  whether  noble  or 
mean,  of  him  who  receives  the  act;  for  a 
right  deed  will  not  please  a  wrong  mind. 
Now,  suppose  we  are  dealing  with  an  in- 
grate, like  the  viper  in  the  fable,  how  must 
we  apply  the  law  of  kindness? 
97 


Making  an  Average. 

First,  it  is  certain  that  the  negative  of 
kindness  never  is  to  be  allowed.  No  mat- 
ter how  basely  ingrate  a  person  may  be, 
never  purposely  are  we  to  do  what  will  dis- 
advantage him  or  what  will  displease  him, 
I  mean  for  the  sake  of  causing  him  injury 
or  annoyance.  As  to  the  positive  side,  we 
must  be  ready  to  do  what  may  be  for  the 
profit,  including  discipline,  of  the  ingrate; 
but  I  must  hold  that  we  are  not  bound  to 
plan  and  take  measures  to  please  him. 
For  he  may  not  deserve  to  be  pleased, 
and  so  far  as  he "  is  an  ingrate  he  does 
not;  and  however  we  give  him  pearls 
of  love,  they  may  not  please,  because, 
being  ingrate,  he  may  not  know  them 
for  what  they  are.  And  if  they  please 
not,  or  even  if  they  please,  so  very  swinish 
is  the  ingrate  he  may  turn  and  rend  you, 
and  will  do  so  if  you  stand  in  his  way 
to  a  trough,  though  you  have  made  his 
very  bed  of  pearls.  Therefore,  I  must 
say  that,  just  as  if  a  swine  once  had 
trampled  pearls  and  then  should  take  a 
fancy  to  have  some,  they  should  not  be 
given  him,  because  of  the  nature  of  the 
creature,  so  an  ingrate  has  no  claim  on 
others  that  they  should  seek  to  give  him 
happiness.  Let  him  look  to  that  himself. 
No  one  is  bound  to  consider  him  and  to 
plan  for  him.  The  whole  duty  of  others 
98 


Making  an  Average. 

toward  him  is,  negatively,  not  to  do  him 
injury,  and,  positively,  to  be  ready  un- 
revengefully  and  mercifully  to  do  him  any 
fair  service  that  offers;  but  not  to  consider 
how  to  deal  joys  to  him  or  to  delight  him. 
For  this  is  to  treat  him  as  a  loyal,  faithful, 
grateful  heart,  which  is  the  opposite  of 
what  he  is.  To  put  it  in  a  sentence, 
every  one  has  the  right  (I  should  say 
the  duty)  simply  to  move  away  from  an 
ingrate  and  make  a  solitude  around  him. 
Caution,  loving  caution,  must  be  had  in 
deciding  that  any  one  is  an  ingrate.  Also 
there  are  many  degrees  of  the  vanity  and 
conceit  with  barrenness  of  heart  ^which 
mingle  to  make  ingratitude;  and  what 
proof  is  needful,  or  how  much  ungrateful- 
ness first  is  to  be  overlooked,  must  be  con- 
sidered in  a  merciful  way.  But  once  any 
one  is  seen  clearly  to  be  an  ingrate,  I  say  it 
is  right  to  leave  him  quietly  in  a  solitude. 
For  he  is  to  be  treated  as  what  he  is,  not 
as  what  he  is  not;  and  he  is  one  at  whose 
feet  loving  favors  are  as  much  out  of  place 
as  pearls  under  hoofs. 

To  sum  up  all,  it  is  certain,  as  I  have 
said,  there  are  such  characters  as  ingrates; 
and  dark  indeed  they  are.  I  think  there 
is  no  manner  of  person  so  dangerous  as  the 
ingrate.  It  is  sound  caution  to  move  away 
and  beware  of  any  one  who  shows  little 
99 


Making  an  Average. 

sense  of  small  favors  and  gentle  atten- 
tions. This  is  not  to  say  that  we  may  try 
to  disoblige  him;  but  that  we  are  under 
no  duty  to  please  him,  if  perchance  it 
would  please  him  to  receive  any  favors  or 
confidence  or  trust.  "All  should  unite  to 
punish  the  ungrateful,"  says  Thomson; 
"  ingratitude  us  treason  to  mankind."  Is 
there  any  kind  of  mental  deformity  so 
great  or  so  menacing?  One  reason  of  this 
is  that  ungratefulness  is  based  on  the 
most  intolerable  and  gross  vanity.  The 
ingrate  can  not  be  such  unless  he  has  a 
Very  great  and  fine  opinion  of  himself,  so 
that  never  he  thinks  himself  treated  well 
enough;  and,  besides,  an  inordinate  vanity 
will  be  offended  with  benefits,  because  of 
the  implication  or  proof  that  aid  was 
needed.  It  has  been  said  shrewdly,  that 
"whenever  the  good  done  to  us  does  not 
affect  the  heart,  it  wounds  and  irritates  our 
vanity."  But  the  slightest  good  ought  to 
affect  the  heart;  and  if  it  do  not,  'tis  vanity 
that  hinders,  sickening  us  with  anger 
by  the  double  poison  of  it,  to  wit,  the  idea 
that  everything  is  due  us,  and  resentment 
that  we  can  be  supposed  to  need  benefits. 
I  have  been  used  to  hold  that  an  extreme 
shrinking  from  being  under  obligation  to  a 
fellow-being  is  an  indication  of  ingrate 
character,  and  that  it  will  be  prudent  to 
100 


Making  an  Average. 

remove  from  the  person  showing  that 
trait.  La  Rochefoucauld  puts  it  that 
•'everybody  takes  pleasure  in  returning 
small  obligations;  many  go  so  far  as  to 
acknowledge  moderate  ones;  but  there  is 
hardly  any  one  who  does  not  repay  great 
obligations  with  ingratitude."  Let  us  take 
comfort,  however,  to  think  this  an  in- 
genious overstatement;  at  best  it  means  no 
more  than  that  heroes  of  battle-fields  are 
more  common  than  heroes  of  noble  self- 
respect  and  humility. 

I  have  met  a  tale  in  the  Gesta  Roman- 
orum  which  may  point  these  thoughts: 

A  man  was  a  slave  of  a  rich  master  who 
was  blind.  The  man  found  favor  in  his 
master's  eyes,  which  I  must  think  was 
because  he  was  blind,  for  the  ingrate  and 
selfish  face  not  easily  is  to  be  mistaken 
if  one  will  observe  well.  Yet  sometimes 
meanness  wears  a  mask  stolen  from  gen- 
erosity. The  master  being  blind  and  so 
having  fewer  pleasures  than  many  men, 
delighted  himself  the  more  in  his  own  ex- 
cellent singing.  For  he  had  a  fine  voice 
and  good  ear  and  great  love  of  music,  as 
very  often  the  blind  have.  He  rejoiced  to 
do  all  kindness  to  his  servants  and  often 
assembled  them  at  evening  when  the  day's 
labors  were  over,  that  he  might  talk  to  them 
from  the  stores  of  his  reflection,  and  es- 
101 


Making  an  Average. 

pecially  he  was  wont  to  sing  to  them  and 
bring  them  also  to  sing  with  him;  so  that 
his  abode  became  renowned  for  its  plenti- 
ful and  pleasing  music,  and  especially  the 
master  himself  for  his  fine  voice  and  his 
perpetual  use  of  it.  For  hardly  he  seemed 
to  cease  to  sing  day  or  night,  and  sweet 
sounds  flowed  from  his  house  like  a  stream 
from  a  fortunate  hill.  Now,  the  slave  who 
had  his  master's  favor  was  made  a  free- 
man by  him;  and  then,  though  poor,  being 
free,  he  solicited  the  hand  of  a  rich  lady, 
for  he  had  an  eye  to  place  and  fortune. 
But  she  reminded  him  of  a  law  of  Rome 
at  that  time,  to  wit,  that  no  poor  man 
should  marry  a  rich  woman;  first  he  must 
have  wealth  equal  to  her  own.  She  desired 
him,  therefore,  to  find  means  for  comply- 
ing with  the  law.  He  departed  in  much 
grief,  but  after  a  little  he  bethought  him- 
self of  his  master  who  had  loved  him  and 
sung  him  his  sweetest  songs  and  at  last 
freed  him.  Might  not  he  bring  the  old 
man  to  his  death  and  seize  on  his  wealth? 
No  sooner  thought  than  planned.  He  set 
about  it  watchfully,  for  the  aged  master 
was  guarded  in  the  day  by  armed  domestics 
and  at  night  by  the  vigilance  of  a  faithful 
dog.  He  contrived,  however,  to  kill  the 
dog  from  a  distance  with  an  arrow,  and 
then  rushing  upon  the  old  man,  despatched 
102 


(Making  an  Average. 

him.  With  the  wealth  thus  obtained  he 
returned  to  the  rich  lady.  He  informed 
her  that  he  had  accomplished  his  purpose, 
and  being  asked  how  this  had  been  done 
in  so  short  a  time,  he  told  her  all  that  had 
happened.  The  lady  desired  him  before 
the  marriage  should  take  place  to  go  to  the 
spot  where  the  master  was  buried,  lay 
himself  on  the  tomb,  listen  to  what  he 
might  hear  and  then  report  it  to  her.  The 
man  did  so.  In  the  middle  of  the  night 
he  heard  a  voice  saying:  "O  aged  master, 
that  liest  buried  here,  what  askest  thou 
that  I  can  do  for  thee?"  The  answer  was: 
"O  Jesus,  upright  judge,  all  that  I  require 
is  that  my  blood,  unjustly  spilled,  be 
avenged."  The  voice  answered:  "Thirty 
years  from  this  time  the  punishment  shall 
be  fulfilled."  When  the  man,  terrified,  re- 
turned with  the  report  to  the  lady,  she  re- 
flected that  thirty  years  made  a  long  time 
and  resolved  on  the  marriage.  When  the 
thirty  years,  filled  with  pleasures,  but  not 
with  peace,  nearly  were  passed,  they  built 
a  strong  castle  and  eight  days  before  the 
expiration  of  the  thirty  years  they  entered 
it.  All  the  gates  and  approaches  were 
guarded  by  slaves  and  by  ferocious  wild 
beasts  and  dogs,  and  great  care  was  taken 
that  only  very  sure  friends  should  come  in. 
All  the  servants  were  examined,  and  only 

103 


Making  an  Average. 

the  lady  and  her  daughters  were  allowed 
to  serve  as  cooks  so  careful  were  they 
against  poison.  A  great  feast  was  made 
to  last  during  five  days.  All  seemed  well. 
Not  an  event  happened  amiss.  'Twas  not 
to  be  seen  how  any  mischief  or  punish- 
ment could  enter  that  stronghold.  On  the 
last  day  of  the  thirty  years  especial  revelry 
was  held  and  all  the  guests  were  in  great 
hilarity  and  the  lord  and  lady  in  great 
show  of  ease,  when  a  bird  flew  in  at  the 
window  and  began  to  sing  with  uncommon 
sweetness.  In  heaven  the  same  voice  had 
spoken  which  the  man  had  heard  at  the 
grave,  and  said:  "O  aged  master,  the 
thirty  years  are  ended.  Now  comes  the 
vengeance  on  the  slayer."  But  the  master, 
whose  kind  heart  had  relented,  cried: 
"Nay,  Lord,  what  harm  did  he  me  that  he 
sent  me  to  thy  heaven?  But  to  himself  he 
did  harm,  for  he  has  had  pleasures  without 
peace;  and  now  is  he  still  harder  of  heart. 
Let  me  go  in  some  shape  to  his  presence, 
and  belike  my  songs,  to  which  once  he 
hearkened  before  he  was  so  evil,  will  soften 
him  yet,  that  thou  may'st  save  him."  The 
voice  said  "Go."  So  came  he  in  the  shape 
of  the  bird.  But  when  the  man  heard  the 
bird's  song  and  knew  the  melodies  which 
he  had  heard  the  master  sing,  he  took  his 
bow  in  wrath  and  shot  an  arrow  through 
104 


Making  an  Average. 

the  bird  in  the  presence  of  all  the  company.. 
Instantly  the  castle  was  rent  into  two  parts 
and  with  the  man  and  the  lady  and  all  the 
guests  who  were  in  it  sank  to  the  lowest 
depths  of  the  infernal  regions.  The  story 
adds  that  on  the  spot  where  the  castle  had 
stood  there  is  now  a  spacious  lake,  on 
which  no  substance  whatever  floats,  but 
immediately  is  plunged  to  the  bottom. 


105 


Vanity. 


XII. 

No  doubt  there  is  a  great  conceit  and 
vanity  of  soul  in  being  unkind.  And  in- 
gratitude, a  hideous  vice  and  very  hateful 
form  of  unkindness,  has  the  same  source, 
as  in  the  last  chapter  I  have  said,  namely, 
a  vain  and  puffed-up  view  of  ourselves. 
For  this,  as  says  Seneca,  "makes  us  think 
that  we  deserve  everything,  so  that  we  take 
a  service  as  if  it  were  our  due  and  never 
think  ourselves  treated  well  enough." 
I  heard  John  Weiss  say  that  by  what 
rivers  you  can  you  may  clean  out  what 
Augean  stables  you  may,  but  no  streams 
or  lavations  can  wash  the  virus  from  the 
heart  pf  a  man  who  conceives  other  per- 
sons made  to  serve  him,  and  verily  allots 
himself  a  claim  to  every  obligingness  and 
deference  from  the  world,  not  by  reason  of 
aught  good  that  he  has  done,  but  on  the 
merits  of  what  fine  things  his  fine  powers 
might  do  if  he  pleased. 

Plainly  a  lowly  and  simple  mind  count- 
ing his  own  merits  modestly  and  "not 
thinking  of  himself  more  highly  than  he 
106 


Vanity. 

ought  to  think, "will  tend  to  the  positive 
kindness  of  good  offices,  because  he  will 
have  so  much  eye  to  spare  for  others  and 
will  see  their  needs;  and  to  the  nega- 
tive kindness  of  doing  no  unkindness,  of 
being  not  morose  nor  captious  nor  venge- 
ful, because  he  that  lays  no  mighty  claims 
not  easily  will  be  offended.  It  is  the  being 
puffed-up  and  highly  vaunting  ourselves 
that  makes  us  to  be  jealous  and  either  to 
put  on  haughtiness  and  sternness  or  to 
retaliate  an  unkindness  with  the  like  of  it; 
because  we  have  so  great  an  idea  of  our 
merits  and  of  the  obliging  treatment  which 
is  due  to  us.  It  is  sad,  wanton  and  hope- 
less when  for  good  things  done  us  we 
credit  not  others'  goodness,  but  our  own 
value.  For  this  reason  we  are  suspicious 
of  slights,  hasty,  obstinate,  severe  and 
swift  in  retaliation.  Therefore  lack  of 
kindness,  and  by  much  more  an  unkindness, 
whether  by  itself  or  in  return  of  an  unkind- 
ness,  is  a  silly  and  weak-minded  thing  to 
the  eye  of  reason,  like  the  undraping  of  a 
mis-shapen  body  with  the  fond  persuasion 
that  it  is  beautiful.  We  show  ourselves 
then  swelling  up  in  spirit,  more  watchful 
of  another's  slips  than  of  our  own,  atten- 
tive to  our  virtues,  but  not  to  our  short- 
comings, and  ridiculously  puffed-up.  A 
foolish  opinion  of  ourselves  is  stark  blind- 
107 


Vanity. 

ness;  also  a  pitiful  feebleness,  as  if  a  blind 
man  should  dress  himself  in  scarlet  and 
yellow  and  strut  for  admiration.  But  what- 
ever soul  is  afflicted  by  the  ills  in  himself 
and  wrestles  with  them  in  humility  of  spirit, 
like  the  publican  who  would  not  so  much 
as  lift  his  eyes  to  heaven,  whither  then  on 
the  down-striking  wings  of  his  eyes  his 
soul  flew,  such  a  one  never  will  be  cruel 
nor  think  himself  so  ill  used  by  the  malice 
of  another  as  to  retort  with  a  like  unkind- 
ness. 

The  vanity  which  is  the  toughness  of 
unkindness  is  the  motive  of  the  story  of 
Drusilla  and  her  daughter  Drusillina  with 
a  gallant  named  Marcellus.  The  learned 
will  have  it  that  the  tale  is  but  Ceres  and 
Proserpina  meddled  with  by  folk-cronies. 
But  that  weighs  not;  if  it  be  so,  the  cronies 
have  given  a  good  moral  to  the  ancient 
myth.  Thus  it  is:  Drusilla  was  born  under 
a  lucky  star,  and  a  strange  god-mother  sud- 
denly appeared  by  the  babe's  side  and 
foretold  that  she  should  have  the  power  of 
changing  any  person  into  whatever  animal 
he  most  resembled.  But  Drusilla  was 
good  at  heart  and  used  not  her  terrible 
gift.  Only  once  in  her  life  she  had  been 
provoked  to  it,  when  a  robber  had  fallen 
on  her  on  a  lone  highway  and  threatened 
both  body  and  purse.  Drusilla  dipped  her 
108 


Vanity. 

hand  in  a  pool  and  dashed  some  water  in 
his  face,  crying,  "Be  what  you  are  like." 
Instantly  he  became  a  cowardly  wolf  and 
slunk  away  among  the  bushes.  When 
Drusillina,  who  was  as  good  and  as  like  to 
her  mother  as  their  names  were  of  a  piece, 
was  a  fair  young  woman,  she  was  snatched 
up  one  day  and  rapt  away  by  a  wicked 
dwarf  who  had  his  abode  inside  a  black 
and  rocky  hill  near  by;  and  soon  after  he 
seized  and  carried  off  Marcellus  in  like 
manner.  Now  Marcellus  had  paid  court 
to  the  young  girl;  but  she  had  not  liked 
him,  and  he  was  angry.  When  he  found 
himself  with  her,  prisoned  in  the  hill-gar- 
den of  the  dwarf,  he  made  his  court  again, 
saying  that  now  being  companions  in  mis- 
fortune they  should  comfort  each  other. 
But  the  weeping  girl  would  have  none  of 
him.  "It  is  bad  enough,"  said  she,  "to 
lose  my  dear  mother  whom  I  love  without 
taking  you  whom  I  love  not."  With  this 
Marcellus  was  still  more  wroth  and  indeed 
raged  in  himself  vengefully.  Now  Drusilla 
looked  for  her  daughter  sorrowfully  every- 
where and  mourned  sadly;  when  suddenly 
in  this  great  strait  appeared  to  her  the 
strange  kindly  old  quean  who  had  stood 
uninvited  god-mother  to  her  and  never 
since  had  been  seen.  The  mystical  dame 
told  Drusilla  where  her  daughter  was 
109 


Vanity. 

and  gave  her  a  talisman  which  would  open 
the  hill  and  oblige  the  dwarf  to  set  free 
Drusillina:  but  only  if  in  the  hill-gardens 
she  neither  had  eaten  nor  drunk  anything. 
With  this  charm  Drusilla  went  into  the 
hill  and  embraced  her  daughter  and  was 
about  leading  her  forth  from  the  scowling 
dwarf — for  Drusillina  said  she  had  tasted 
neither  morsel  of  food  nor  drop  of  drink  in 
the  place — when  Marcellus  came  near  and 
said:  "I  saw  you  under  a  rose-tree,  and 
when  you  reached  up  your  face  to  smell 
of  a  rose  a  drop  of  dew  fell  from  the  flower 
upon  your  lip  and  you  drank  it."  "Ah! 
ha!"  said  the  dwarf  with  a  vile  leer,  "the 
pretty  weeper  will  not  get  out  of  the  hill 
yet  awhile."  "Become  what  you  are  like," 
cried  the  angry  mother,  dashing  some 
water  into  the  face  of  Marcellus.  And  in- 
stantly he  became  a  peacock. 


110 


Calmness. 


XIII. 

Calmness,  if  it  be  not  a  base  phlegm,  is 
both  a  kindness  and  a  means  of  preventing 
unkindness.  A  vast  bulk  of  unkindness 
is  done  in  sudden  passion;  and  a  worse 
kind,  more  hurtful,  though  not  so  plenti- 
ful, is  done  in  obstinate  and  prolonged 
fevers  of  hatred,  which  are  the  most  un- 
reasonable and  inexcusable  manner  of  the 
lack  of  calmness.  It  is  pitiable  when  one 
continually  is  ambushed  by  sudden  rages 
and  hot  gusts  as  if  a  blazing  and  smoky 
wind  swept  down  on  him,  fogging  the  eye's 
sunlight  with  the  nitre  and  soot  of  frowns. 
But  worse  is  it,  and  very  bad,  blame- 
worthy, savage,  when  the  rage  lasts,  and 
even  grows  day  by  day.  'Tis  then  like  a 
pack  of  wolves  invading  a  hamlet  which  a 
hurricane  has  overthrown.  Now,  by  calm- 
ness done  away,  either  by  a  sudden  flush 
or  a  settled  fever  of  rage,  great  unkindness 
is  heaped  up.  Sad  sufferings,  incurable 
wounds  then  are  inflicted  by  comrades, 
friends,  lovers,  on  each  other.  Very  bitter 
may  be  the  repentance,  but  ineffectual.  It 
ill 


Calmness. 

is  well  to  say  over  and  over,  till  we  learn  to 
think  of  it  fearfully,  that  as  in  the  body 
£here  are  small  wounds  which  heal  and 
leave  no  memory  or  mark,  and  great  hurts, 
like  the  severing  of  a  member,  which  can 
not  be  cured  so  as  to  make  the  body  what 
it  was  before,  so  in  the  heart  there  may  be 
many  healings  of  hurts  and  even  no  scars 
left,  yet  with  one  blow  may  be  given  a 
wound  for  which  no  repentance  can  bring 
balm  nor  make  the  heart  to  arise  from  it  to 
be  what  before  it  was. 

It  may  help  us  if  in  our  sane  hours  we 
will  reason  on  this  point  and  throw  up  as 
many  as  may  be  of  works  of  meditation 
against  ambushes  and  surprises  of  anger, 
simply  resolving  not  to  be  foolish.  It 
needs  no  more  than  this,  that  we  be  not 
foolish.  For  it  is  plain  good  sense  in 
Seneca  when  he  says  that  "if  there  were 
any  reason  for  beginning  to  be  angry  there 
could  be  none  for  ever  ceasing  to  be,"  and 
that  "it  is  madness  to  think  we  can  fix  an 
end  to  passions  which  we  cannot  control 
at  their  beginning." 

Also  says  Seneca:  "There  is  nothing 
grand  that  is  not  also  calm;"  which  is 
much  to  our  purpose  now,  for  calmness,  I 
say,  is  a  kindness,  and  kindness  is  a  great- 
ness, truly  a  grandeur,  being  a  species  of 
love,  or  an  act  of  it.  Calmness  is  more 
112 


Calmness. 

than  a  cursory  quiet,  a  lull  between  up- 
roars. It  is  a  quiet  like  the  sea,  too  deep 
to  be  plowed.  In  such  a  peace,  meditation 
hath  a  watch-tower,  and  the  mind's  eye 
sees  things  as  they  are.  Reason  hath  its 
full  headway  in  this  quietness.  Kindness 
is  so  reasonable — we  need  argue  no  more 
than  this,  that  it  is  reasonable — and  an 
excellence  so  natural  to  thinking  beings — 
nay,  very  manifest  and  abundant  in  many 
gentle  creatures  among  our  dumb  fellow- 
beings,  who  await  the  unloosing  of  their 
tongues  and  with  them  the  unloosing  of 
their  minds  unto  the  general  thoughts  with 
which  we  have  advantage, — that  any  one 
who  can  think  of  these  things  in  calmness 
and  then  invent  and  inflict  a  hurt,  or  be 
careless  whether  he  do  what  may  hurt, 
surely  must  have  his  reason  only  about  his 
neck  as  a  millstone,  or,  by  another  figure, 
surely  must  wear  his  reason  as  no  better 
than  a  hide  of  cunning  and  claws,  and  be 
more  cruel  than  beasts  that  act  from  un- 
reflecting fury. 

A  noble  calmness,  which  conveys  a  re- 
proof by  a  quiet  deed,  but  not  in  manner, 
still  less  in  words,  has  a  mighty  power  to 
form  and  to  convert.  For  a  reproach  by 
words  can  not  but  make  some  noise,  and 
reproach  by  manner  may  be  very  irritating 
by  as  much  as  it  is  undefined  andunanswer- 
113 


Calmness. 

able;  but  reproof  by  the  right  deed,  with 
calmness,  is  like  a  still  fair  pool  and  the 
offender  brought  suddenly  to  see  himself 
in  it  and  to  reflect  what  manner  of  man  he 
appears.  I  am  reminded  of  a  very  fine 
story  of  the  Cid  in  illustration;  which  I 
will  take  from  Southey's  "  Chronicle:" 

"Here  the  history  relates  that  at  this 
time  Martin  Pelaez  the  Asturian  came 
with  a  convoy  of  laden  beasts,  carrying 
provisions  to  the  host  of  the  Cid;  and  as 
he  passed  near  the  town  the  Moors  sallied 
out  in  great  numbers  against  him;  but  he, 
though  he  had  few  with  him,  defended 
the  convoy  right  well,  and  did  great  hurt 
to  the  Moors,  slaying  many  of  them,  and 
drove  them  into  the  town.  This  Martin 
Pelaez  who  is  here  spoken  of,  did  the  Cid 
make  a  right  good  knight,  of  a  coward,  as 
ye  shall  hear.  When  the  Cid  first  began 
to  lay  siege  to  the  city  of  Valencia,  this 
Martin  Pelaez  came  unto  him;  he  was  a 
knight,  a  native  of  Santillana  in  Asturias, 
a  hidalgo,  great  of  body  and  strong  of 
limb,  a  well  made  man  and  of  goodly  sem- 
blance, but  withal  a  right  coward  at  heart, 
which  he  had  shown  in  many  places  when 
he  was  among  feats  of  arms.  And  the  Cid 
was  sorry  when  he  came  unto  him,  though 
he  would  not  let  him  perceive  this;  for  he 
knew  he  was  not  fit  to  be  of  his  company. 
1U 


Calmness. 


Howbeit  he  thought  that  since  he  was 
come  he  would  make  him  brave  whether 
he  would  or  not.  And  when  the  Cid  began 
to  war  upon  the  town,  and  sent  parties 
against  it  twice  and  thrice  a  day,  as  ye 
have  heard,*  for  the  Cid  was  alway  upon 
the  alert,  there  was  fighting  and  tourney- 
ing every  day.  One  day  it  fell  out  that 
the  Cid  and  his  kinsmen  and  friends  and 
vassals  were  engaged  in  a  great  encounter, 
and  this  Martin  Pelaez  was  well  armed; 
and  when  he  saw  that  the  Moors  and 
Christians  were  at  it,  he  fled  and  betook 
himself  to  his  lodging,  and  there  hid  him- 
self till  the  Cid  returned  to  dinner.  And 
the  Cid  saw  what  Martin  Pelaez  did,  and 
when  he  had  conquered  the  Moors  he  re- 
turned to  his  lodging  to  dinner.  Now  it 
was  the  custom  of  the  Cid  to  eat  at  a  high 
table,  seated  on  his  bench,  at  the  head. 
And  Don  Alvar  Fanez,  and  Pero  Ber- 
mudez,  and  other  precious  knights,  ate  in 
another  part,  at  high  tables,  full  honor- 
ably, and  none  other  knights  whatsoever 
dare  take  their  seats  with  them,  unless  they 
were  such  as  deserved  to  be  there;  and  the 
others  who  were  not  so  approved  in  arms 
ate  upon  estrados,  at  tables  with  cushions. 
This  was  the  order  in  the  house  of  the  Cid, 
and  every  one  knew  the  place  where  he 
was  to  sit  at  meat,  and  every  one  strove  all 
115 


Calmness. 

he  could  to  gain  the  honor  of  sitting  to 
eat  at  the  table  of  Don  Alvar  Fanez  and 
his  companions,  by  strenuously  behaving 
himself  in  all  feats  of  arms;  and  thus  the 
honor  of  the  Cid  was  advanced.  This 
Martin  Pelaez,  thinking  that  none  had 
seen  his  badness,  washed  his  hands  in  turn 
with  the  other  knights,  and  would  have 
taken  his  place  among  them.  And  the 
Cid  went  unto  him,  and  took  him  by  the 
hand  and  said,  you  are  not  such  a  one  as 
deserves  to  sit  with  these,  for  they  are 
worth  more  than  you  or  than  me;  but  I 
will  have  you- with  me;  and  he  seated 
him  with  himself  at  table.  And  he,  for 
lack  of  understanding,  thought  that  the 
Cid  did  this  to  honor  him  above  all  the 
others.  On  the  morrow  the  Cid  and  his 
company  rode  towards  Valencia,  and  the 
Moors  came  out  to  the  tourney;  and  Mar- 
tin Pelaez  went  out  well  armed,  and  was 
among  the  foremost  who  charged  the 
Moors,  and  when  he  was  in  among  them 
he  turned  the  reins,  and  went  back  to  his 
lodging;  and  the  Cid  took  heed  to  all  that 
he  did,  and  saw  that  though  he  had  done 
badly  he  had  done  better  than  the  first  day. 
And  when  the  Cid  had  driven  the  Moors 
into  the  town  he  returned  to  his  lodging, 
and  as  he  sate  down  to  meat  he  took  this 
Martin  Pelaez  by  the  hand,  and  seated 
116 


Calmness. 

him  with  himself,  and  bade  him  eat  with 
him  in  the  same  dish,  for  he  had  deserved 
more  that  day  than  he  had  the  first.  And 
the  knight  gave  heed  to  that  saying,  and 
was  abashed;  howbeit  he  did  as  the  Cid 
commanded  him:  and  after  he  had  dined 
he  went  to  his  lodging  and  began  to  think 
upon  what  the  Cid  had  said  unto  him,  and 
perceived  that  he  had  seen  all  the  baseness 
which  he  had  done;  and  then  he  under- 
stood that  for  this  cause  he  would  not  let 
him  sit  at  board  with  the  other  knights 
who  were  precious  in  arms,  but  had  seated 
him  with  himself,  more  to  affront  him  than 
to  do  him  honor,  for  there  were  other 
knights  there  better  than  he,  and  he  did 
not  show  them  that  honor.  Then  re- 
solved he  in  his  heart  to  do  better  than  he 
had  done  heretofore.  Another  day  the 
Cid  and  his  company  and  Martin  Pelaez 
rode  toward  Valencia,  and  the  Moors  came 
out  to  the  tourney  full  resolutely,  and  Mar- 
tin Pelaez  was  among  the  first,  and 
charged  them  right  boldly;  and  he  smote 
down  and  slew  presently  a  good  knight, 
and  he  lost  there  all  the  bad  fear  which  he 
had  had,  and  was  that  day  one  of  the  best 
knights  there:  and  as  long  as  the  tourney 
lasted  there  he  remained,  smiting  and  slay- 
ing and  overthrowing  the  Moors,  till  they 
were  driven  within  the  gates,  in  such  man- 
117 


Calmness. 

ner  that  the  Moors  marveled  at  him,  and 
asked  where  that  Devil  came  from,  for  they 
had  never  seen  him  before.  And  the  Cid 
was  in  a  place  where  he  could  see  all  that 
was  going  on,  and  he  gave  good  heed  to 
him,  and  had  great  pleasure  in  beholding 
him,  to  see  how  well  he  had  forgotten  the 
great  fear  which  he  was  wont  to  have. 
And  when  the  Moors  were  shut  up  within 
the  town,  the  Cid  and  all  his  people  re- 
turned to  their  lodging,  and  Martin  Pelaez 
full  leisurely  and  quietly  went  to  his  lodg- 
ing also,  like  a  good  knight.  And  when 
it  was  the  hour  of  eating  the  Cid  waited 
for  Martin  Pelaez,  and  when  he  came,  and 
they  had  washed,  the  Cid  took  him  by  the 
hand  and  said,  My  friend,  you  are  not  such 
a  one  as  deserves  to  sit  with  me  from 
henceforth,  but  sit  you  here  with  Don 
Alvar  Fanez,  and  with,  these  other  good 
knights,  for  the  good  feats  which  you  have 
done  this  day  have  made  you  a  companion 
for  them;  and  from  that  day  forward  he 
was  placed  in  the  company  of  the  good. 
And  the  history  saith  that  from  that  day 
forward  this  knight  Martin  Pelaez  was  a 
right  good  one,  and  a  right  valiant,  and  a 
right  precious,  in  all  places  where  he 
chanced  among  feats  of  arms,  and  he  lived 
alway  with  the  Cid,  and  served  him  right 
well  and  truly.  And  the  history  saith 
118 


Calmness. 

that  after  the  Cid  had  won  the  city  of  Val- 
encia, on  the  day  when  they  conquered 
and  discomfited  the  King  of  Seville,  this 
Martin  Pelaez  was  so  good  a  one,  that  set- 
ting aside  the  body  of  the  Cid  himself, 
there  was  no  such  good  knight  there,  nor 
one  who  bore  such  part,  as  well  in  the  bat- 
tle as  in  the  pursuit.  And  so  great  was 
the  mortality  which  he  made  among  the 
Moors  that  day,  that  when  he  returned 
from  the  business  the  sleeves  of  his  mail 
were  clotted  with  blood,  up  to  the  elbow; 
insomuch  that  for  what  he  did  that  day 
his  name  is  written  in  this  history,  that  it 
may  never  die.  And  when  the  Cid  saw 
him  come  in  that  guise,  he  did  him  great 
honor,  such  as  he  never  had  done  to  any 
knight  before  that  day,  and  from  thence- 
forward gave  him  a  place  in  all  his  actions 
and  in  all  his  secrets,  and  he  was  his  great 
friend.  In  this  knight  Martin  Pelaez  was 
fulfilled  the  example  which  saith  that  he 
who  betaketh  himself  to  a  good  tree  hath 
good  shade,  and  he  who  serves  a  good 
Lord  winneth  good  guerdon;  for  by  reason 
of  the  good  service  which  he  did  the  Cid, 
he  came  to  such  good  state  that  he  was 
spoken  of  as  ye  have  heard:  for  the  Cid 
knew  how  to  make  a  good  knight,  as  a 
good  groom  knows  how  to  make  a  good 
horse." 

119 


Invention. 


XIV. 

I  have  bethought  me  of  the  little  thing, 
the  little  fetch  of  love,  which  I  will  do  for 
my  dear  Dozen. 

Much  have  I  pondered  what  little  atten- 
tion or  gift  I  could  bring  to  pass  for  her 
which  should  cost  no  money  (of  which 
fine  dross  I  have  none  nor  can  compass 
any),  but  should  be  concocted  of  time  and 
thought.  And  now  I  have  a  fine  and  sim- 
ple invention.  I  will  write  her  a  letter. 
Not  too  long,  else  she  will  chide  me  for 
time  or  mind  or  rest  too  much  spent;  nor 
too  short;  for  there  must  be  a  duty  and  a 
reverence  in  it.  It  shall  be  of  the  exact 
length  to  join  dear  love  with  good  sense. 
Blissful  thought!  I  will  delight  her.  In 
this  early  morn  now  will  I  write  the  letter; 
for  after  the  morn-meal  (the  cheerful  clat- 
ter of  her  utensils  and  the  trip  of  her  feet 
while  she  prepares  the  same  now  pierce 
through  doors  and  my  ears,  straight  drop- 
ping into  my  heart  like  spent  arrows  into 
a  pool)  I  must  go  to  the  city  to-day  and  be 
gone  until  night;  which  rare  excursion 
120 


Invention. 

opens  a  door  of  opportunity  to  me.  I 
will  mail  my  letter  early  in  the  city  and 
it  will  come  back  hither  to  her  by  the  mid- 
afternoon.  Ah!  I  think  I  can  see  afar 
the  sparkle  of  her  eye  when  she  shall 
read  it,  not  without  a  watery  glimmer,  per- 
haps,— my  dear  Dozen — like  the  winking 
gleam  of  a  star,  such  tenderness  lodges  in 
distance. 

What?  A  shame  on  my  years?  A  boy's 
freak?  The  idling  of  a  lover  who  has  not 
passed  the  " sighing  furnace"  and  the 
"woful  ballad  made  to  his  mistress'  eye- 
brow? "  Not  so.  Mix  up  like  with  unlike 
by  error  of  the  eye,  and  call  chalk  swan's- 
down,  if  you  will,  good  reader.  Not  L 
No  "sighing  furnace"  would  I  make  of 
any  love;  yet  that  were  better,  so  only  it 
would  sigh  forever,  than  an  ashy  heap 
where  dies  a  "poor  remains"  of  fire,, 
with  a  small  glow  in  the  dark,  but  more 
gray  than  age  if  but  a  beam  of  light  fall 
on  it.  And  for  being  a  boy — why,  if  a 
man  love  like  a  boy,  he  loves  doubly;  for 
he  must  love  like  a  man,  being  one,  and  if 
then  with  that  he  keep  his  boyhood  and 
add  a  boy's  loving,  he  is  twice  good, 
"With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles 
come;"  ay,  and  with  love's  most  frisking 
mirth!  For  love  and  innocence  are  the 
only  things  that  sport  truly;  and  of  all 
121 


Invention. 

love's  tricks  and  wiles  and  plots,  not  one 
jot  will  I  abate  till  I  lay  me  down  in  my 
white  quiet  at  last. 

And  as  to  my  years,  what  has  love  to  do 
with  time?  I  have  brooded  at  moments 
over  the  thought  that  by  virtue  of  the  love 
of  God  it  is  that  to  him  a  thousand  years 
are  as  a  day.  For  his  wisdom  we  must 
conceive  perfect,  infinite,  accomplished 
from  all  eternity;  wherefore  it  has  naught 
to  do  with  time,  neither  taking  thought  of 
a  day  nor  of  a  thousand  years  nor  of  ever- 
lasting cycles.  But  his  love  is  nev.er  ac- 
complished, for  it  speeds  and  spreads  to 
every  new  creature  that  comes  forth  unto 
him;  wherefore  it  is  busy  continually  with 
time,  but  in  love's  mighty  fashion.  For 
love,  after  a  vast  period,  hath  wavered  no 
more  than  in  a  day.  And  human  love 
hath  so  much  of  Divinity  as  that  it 
counts  not  years  nor  grows  old,  and  "the 
most  ancient  heavens  "  are  to  it  as  a  day. 
Go  thy  way,  friend;  call  not  my  years 
frosty.  I  tell  thee  I  will  have  heart- 
games  and  invent  love-traps  for  my  sweet 
Sister  while  head  and  hand  keep  their 
cunning;  and  when  they  become  stiff  in 
all  else,  by  use  they  shall  be  spry  in  this, 
and  I  will  gladden  me  in  it  like  any  boy. 

Now  to  my  letter,  for  time  goes,  and  I 
hear  the  symphony  of  the  breakfast  clatter 
122 


Invention. 

giving    forth   a    certain   tinkle    or    melody 
which  apprises  me  it  is  near  done: — 

OUR  STUDY,  June  — 
My  Dear  Sister: — 

Ah!  ha!  Say  no  more  that  I  have  not 
a  fine  wit!  Confess  that  I  can  surprise 
thee,  my  dear!  Shall  I  not  send  this,  my 
shadow,  back  to  my  gentle  Dozen,  to 
linger  my  going  and  to  foredate  my  return? 
Ay,  verily  will  I.  And  I  will  show  thee 
that  when  a  shadow  is  cast  by  love's  light, 
it  has  substance  sufficient  to  knock  at  the 
door,  and,  after  that,  at  the  heart. 

Surprises — what  mangers  of  daily  affec- 
tion they  are,  where  'gentle  herds  of  joys 
feed!  'Tis  the  short  paths  of  daily  life,  the 
habitudes  and  recurring  hours  that  make 
surprises  possible.  Long  paths,  like  as  if 
one  go  a  journey,  and  be  wandering  from 
place  to  place  over  the  earth,  may  be  set 
thick  on  every  side  with  wondrous  and  cu- 
rious and  strange  things;  but  with  surprises, 
— no;  because  where  all  is  new  and  naught 
expected,  there  is  no  marking  of  the  unex- 
pected. But  the  daily-trodden  paths  of 
common  life  give  place  for  sudden  turns 
or  surprises.  If,  my  Dozen,  thou  take  a 
flight  to  some  strange  place  and  there 
find  a  fine  statue  on  a  pedestal,  thou  wilt 
admire,  but  not  be  surprised.  For  why, 
123 


Invention. 

mayhap,  should  there  not  be  ten  statues, 
or  any  things  whatsoever?  But  if  thou  go 
about  thy  gentle  daily  walks  and  pass  in 
the  morning  a  niche  in  thy  garden  which 
always  thou  hast  seen  empty  and  this  very 
morning  it  is  empty  and  this  noon  thou 
pass  again,  and  lo!  a  figure,  a  breathing 
marble,  then  hast  thou  not  only  admiration 
but  a  surprise. 

Now  surprises  are  love's  food  and  love's 
cheers,  dearest  Marian;  and  the  short 
paths  of  daily  life  are  very  precious  oppor- 
tunities. We  have  to  visit  the  same  places, 
see  the  same  persons,  return  again  to  the 
same  abodes,  do  the  same  tasks,  take 
up  the  same  cares,'  over  and  over  each 
week,  every  day.  Here  is  room  for  sur- 
prises— blissful  room,  a  many-nooked  gar- 
den, a  court  of  marble  columns  with 
abundant  corners,  a  chamber  of  bright 
tapestries  with  plentiful  hidings.  If  any 
one  of  the  common  things  or  repetitions 
vary  a  little,  lo,  a  surprise!  This  is  a  field 
to  seed  with  love's  blossoms.  Naught  is 
needed  but  a  little  brooding,  a  bit  of  in- 
vention, a  thought,  a  care.  Let  one  drop 
a  flower  for  the  other  at  a  corner  turned 
every  morning.  At  the  door  to  which  the 
one  returns  every  night,  let  the  other  set  up 
a  statue,  I  mean  a  bit  of  help  or  welcome  or 
other  attention,  not  there  in  the  morning. 
124 


Invention. 

At  bed-time  let  some  little  pleasure  be 
found  on  the  pillow,  like  a  charm  thought- 
dropt  to  please  Sleep  that  his  angels,  good 
Dreams,  may  be  let  in.  At  the  waking,  or 
the  coming  down  in  the  morning,  let  some 
beam  of  love-light  unexpected  mingle  with 
the  expected  daylight.  These  are  sur- 
prises which  give  health  and  good  pulses 
of  strength. 

So,  now,  thou  good  Dozen,  thou  Sister- 
heart  of  me,  confess!  Shrive  thyself  I 
Say  thou  art  surprised  when  the  postman 
shall  deliver  thee  this  epistle!  Say  that 
it  flashes  a  bit  in  thine  eyes,  like  the  sun 
which  will  dazzle  thee  when  thou  shalt 
open  the  west  door  at  the  carrier's  knock! 
Own  that  I  have  the  best  of  thee  !  Verily 
I  have  dug  a  pit  for  thee;  but  I  have 
poured  in  a  measure  of  downy  words  that 
it  may  be  soft  enough  for  thee  till  I  re- 
turn and  pull  thee  out  ! 

I  must  tell  thee  of  a  sight  I  had  when 
early  this  morning  I  walked  out-doors  to 
"snuff  the  morning  breeze"  and  wash  my 
eyes  in  the  East.  I  came  on  a  flock  of 
about  twenty  small  birds,  feathered  darl- 
ings, who  seemed  to  have  found  some  sort 
of  cold  pickings  on  the  grass  between  the 
house  and  the  church,  and  were  very  busy 
with  their  pretty  bills.  I  went  cautiously 
off  close  to  the  road-side  and  passed 
125 


Invention 

without  causing  so  much  as  a  flutter  of  a 
wing,  or  even  seeming  to  attract  their  at- 
tention. "There  is  a  pretty  item  for  Sister 
to  fall  on,"  said  I  (having  this  letter-pit 
for  thee  in  mind),  and  went  on  happy. 
Ah  !  little  birds,  did  ye  think  as  ye  as- 
sembled there  that  ye  had  a  mission  for 
me,  to  put  into  my  heart  a  pleasant  image 
for  a  gentle  Sister  ?  She  is  ever  in  my 
soul;  but  did  ye  know  that  ye  came  to  ar- 
range me  for  an  instant  into  a  special  nest 
for  her  and  for  you  (fit  company  for  each 
other  as  ye  are,  ye  birds  and  thou  womanly 
spirit),  and  give  me  so  good  a  nesting  of 
joy?  I  trow  not.  So  serve  we  each  other, 
we  creatures  of  one  Father,,  when  we  know 
it  not.  I  bless  you,  ye  little  birds;  and 
when  my  Dozen  shall  read  these  words, 
she  will  bless  you.  Ah  !  how  well  did  I 
owe  it  to  you  to  walk  cautiously  by  you, 
that  not  a  breast  or  wing  of  you  might  be 
fluttered  ! 

Well,  farewell  for  a  little,  my  dear.  And 
look  thou,  thou  rogue  of  a  Dozen — have 
me  an  extra-brown  toast  at  tea-table  and 
uncork  thy  most  precious  marmalade.  I 
come  home  in  no  humor  for  odds  and  ends 
picked  up,  nay,  but  for  goodies.  There- 
fore look  to  thy  toast  and  the  rest  of  it. 
But  chiefly  see  to  thyself.  Have  on  thy 
pink  ribbon.  Come  not  near  me  with 
126 


Invention. 

toast  without  thy  pink  ribbon.  See  that 
thou  look  thy  prettiest.  Meet  me  at  the 
door.  Fail  not.  Beware.  . 

Thy  admirable 

BROTHER. 

So.  Now  when  I  go  forth  I  will  toss  my 
letter  in  the  air  like  a  dove.  It  will  fly  to 
its  cote,  by  that  kindliest  of  all  human  in- 
ventions, that  straight  air-path  and  light- 
path,  the  postal  service.  But,  sooth,  the 
dove's  breast  burns  on  my  palm  with  some 
sad  moralizings  of  love.  For  with  gray 
hairs  I  find  the  sadness  of  age  is  its  emin- 
ence to  behold  the  mistakes  of  the  young. 
I  see  young"  lovers  marry  and  build  their 
argosies  of  sun-beams  and  go  sailing  forth. 
But  they  have  not  thought  how  to  keep 
their  love;  no,  but  rather  they  think  they 
will  be  kept  by  the  love.  Sad,  plaintive 
error !  Strange  and  sad  it  seems  that 
youth  is  the  season  of  so  bright  love,  when 
indeed  it  must  set  forth — there  is  no  other 
way — and  yet  love  is  so  great  a  thing  that 
only  age  hath  learned  the  secret  and  trick 
of  it,  how  to  keep  it. 

But  how  may  love  be  kept  ?  This  is  to 
be  done  by  not  trusting  to  the  love  to  take 
care  of  the  consorting,  but  by  using  the  con- 
sorting to  take  care  of  the  love.  This  is  the 
secret  of  joy;  "the  straight  and  narrow 
127 


Invention. 

way,"  and  many  there  be  who  find  it  not. 
The  lovers  say  in  their  hearts:  "Now 
we  are  safe;  the  reefs  are  passed;  we  love, 
we  are  married;  all  is  done;  our  joy  is 
made;  love  takes  care  of  that;  we  will  ride 
at  rest  in  the  harbor."  Sadness,  say  I, 
sadness,  sadness,  naught  but  sadness. 
Love  is  that  very  thing  which  must  be 
taken  care  of.  Nay,  it  will  not  grow  with- 
out exceeding  care.  Naught  but  a  weed 
will  come  to  fruit  without  looking  after. 
'Tis  the  very  notion  of  a  tare  that  it  thrives 
on  neglect.  Weeds,  it  is  said,  poetically, 
are  plants  whose  uses  we  know  not  yet. 
Ah!  but  let  a  use  be  known,  instantly  we 
need  to  improve  the  wild  herb.  Then 
there  is  a  tussle  with  it,  and  no  longer  it 
is  a  weed.  What  if  one  set  out  a  rare  rose 
in  a  bed  and  say,  "Grow  now,"  but  tend 
it  not,  shade  it  not,  nor  water  it,  nor  dig 
about  it  ?  Will  it  come  to  flower  ?  Yet 
so  the  thoughtless  young  plant  love  in 
marriage,  saying,  "Bloom  now,"  and  go 
about  their  business;  and  their  Plant  of 
Paradise  dries  and  is  eaten  of  worms. 
'Tis  done  before  they  know  it.  Belike 
some  day  they  bethink  them  of  the  rose- 
tree  and  go  to  it  fora  flower,  but  find  none. 
Therefore,  trust  not  to  the  love  for  the 
marriage.  'Tis  the  business  of  the  mar- 
riage to  till  the  love.  Now,  what  other 
128 


Invention. 

way  of  nursing  aught  is  there  but  by  fore- 
thought and  invention  ?  They  must 
scheme  for  it  and  wax  ingenious  for  it.  Let 
the  wife  consider  at  morning,  "What 
can  I  devise  whereby  to  send  off  my  hus- 
band this  day  with  a  bit  of  attention  which 
shall  cling  to  his  heart  till  he  come  back  to 
me?"  Let  the  husband  plot  at  evening, 
"What  can  I  invent  now  whereby  to 
bring  home  not  only  myself  to  my  wife, 
but  good  proof  that  I  have  had  thoughts  of 
her  in  my  busy  cares  ?"  There  wilfr  lack 
no  genius  for  the  invention  if  there  be  but 
thought  of  the  need  of  it. 

Two  stories  have  I  which  put  love's 
carefulness  of  itself,  like  a  good  body's 
clean  hygiene,  in  a  brief  and  amiable  way. 
A  poor  man  was  to  wed  a  very  rich  lady. 
A  friend  bewailed  with  him,  foreboding: 
"She  has  everything  she  can  wish,"  said 
the  friend,  "and  is  not  likely  to  set  much 
preciousness  on  more."  "But,"  said  the 
man,  "do  you  reckon  me  at  no  more  than 
her  stuffs?  Each  bit  of  her  furniture  has 
but  one  service;  it  is  a  stock,  with  that  one 
office  and  no  more.  But  I,  who  am  a 
mind,  can  invent.  I  will  devise  gentle 
deeds  more  than  the  day  has  hours,  and 
more  expressions  than  I  shall  have  meet- 
ings with  her."  The  other  story  is  of  a 
wife  who  would  not  go  to  a  merry  supper, 
129 


Invention. 

wherein  she  had  good  company  and  much 
reason  and  right  to  have  part,  but  still 
she  would  not,  because  her  husband  had 
affairs  to  keep  him  at  home.  "But  he  will 
not  sup  alone,"  cried  her  friends;  "there 
are  others  in  the  house  and  at  the  table. 
Well  enough  for  once  he  can  do  without 
you."  "But,"  said  the  wife,  with  a  sweet 
flush,  "I  wish  him  not  to  discover  that  he 
can  do  without  me." 


130 


Happiness. 


XV. 

Fun  was  my  Dozen's  postman  —  our 
dog.  The  little  creature  was  a  stray 
being,  a  waif.  Marian  found  her  one  cold 
morning  last  winter  shivering  and  sleep- 
ing at  once  in  the  small  shelter  of  an  up- 
turned box  in  a  corner  of  the  garden.  She 
was  very  dirty  and  very  suspicious,  yet 
from  a  distance  gave  signs  of  a  piteous 
friendship  which  agitated  all  her  little  body 
wonderfully.  As  Caesar  said,  "I  rather 
tell  thee  what  is  to  be  feared  than  what  I 
fear,  for  always  I  am  Caesar,"  so  con- 
versely the  sad  and  willing  little  being  by 
every  quaver  of  her  frame  seemed  to  say, 
"You  see  how  foolish  and  how  fond  I  am, 
but  rather  I  tell  you  what  is  to  be  hoped 
than  what  I  hope,  for  I  mind  me  of  all  the 
kicks  and  harsh  words  I  have  had."  It 
was  only  after  much  kind  and  delicately- 
mannered  feeding  for  some  days  that  she 
consented  to  be  touched,  and  then  after  a 
little  very  shyly  entered  the  house.  At 
that  point  my  Sister  judged  it  well  to  use 
some  gentle  compulsion  for  the  little 
131 


Happiness. 

creature's  better  comfort  and  conversion; 
she  promptly  seized  the  dog  and  plunged 
her  into  a  delicious  warm  bath.  There 
was  much  trembling  but  no  resistance 
while  the  balmy  soap  was  spread,  rubbed 
to  a  lather  and  gotten  into  the  matted 
meshes  by  the  fingers  of  my  Sister,  who 
talked  and  cooed  the  while  without  ceas- 
ing to  the  sensitive  little  being.  When 
she  came  from  the  bath  her  long  hair  was 
of  a  lustrous  pearl,  her  skin  a  blush  of 
pink,  and  the  spherical  brown  of  her  eyes 
from  the  misty  locks  that  hung  about  them 
showed  a  very  soft  gleam  and  pathos. 
From  that  instant  she  was  one  of  us,  and 
her  ecstasy  of  refreshment  both  mental 
and  physical  was  more  than  she  could  ex- 
press by  the  most  wonderful  agitations  of 
her  little  frame.  Soon  she  considered  us 
;so  much  her  own  as  to  be  under  her  care; 
-.she  must  keep  a  watch  for  trespassers. 
Her  bark  and  growl  have  a  humor,  they 
are  so  big  and  opinionated  from  so  small  a 
source.  She  is  a  doughty  little  being,  a 
tender  friend,  but  not  obsequious. 

Well,  this  Fun  I  say  (my  Dozen  named 
her  Fun)  was  made  my  Sister's  postman  in 
answering  my  letter.  When  I  arrived  at 
home  last  evening,  methought  I  could 
snuff,  or  rather  feel  pervading  me  as  if  in 
a  warm  perfume,  a  somewhat  uncommon 
132 


Happiness. 

in  the  house  and  around  my  Sister,  a  man- 
ner of  pulsation,  a  certain  light;  but  not  a 
word  said  she,  nor  could  I  gather  any  sign 
save  that  she  wore  the  pink  ribbon  and  the 
toast  and  marmalade  were  duly  on  the 
table.  She  preserved  a  sweet  ease,  with 
now  and  then  a  frank  look  at  me,  which  I 
found  exceeding  charming  and  vexatious. 
For,  look  you,  I  had  made  up  my  mouth 
for  much  rapture  over  my  fine  letter  and  to 
be  greatly  bepraised  and  hung  upon. 

But  I  observed  that  after  our  evening 
meal  my  Dozen  took  possession  of  me. 
Commonly  she  is  very  respectful  in  that 
point.  She  waits  at  a  loving  distance, 
with  a  reverence,  to  learn  whether  I  will 
enter  the  study  and  sit  me  to  write;  and  if 
so  I  do,  a  sweet  cool  stillness  falls  on  the 
house,  and  after  a  little — for  she  knows 
she  is  to  me  at  such  times  like  a  breeze  of 
clover  coming  in  at  a  window,  bathing  but 
not  interrupting  my  solitude — she  will  come 
in  with  a  spiritual  footfall  with  which  "Si- 
lence is  pleased."  And  if  I  write  late, 
much  absorbed,  anon  she  will  come  to  me, 
bestow  a  kiss,  murmur  a  good-night  and  be 
gone,  all  so  soft  as  would  not  distract  an 
angel  intent  on  catching  a  new  melody 
from  a  strange  conjunction  of  stars  in  "the 
music  of  the  spheres." 

O  beautiful  respect!  O  fair  and  delicate 
133 


Happiness. 

carefulness!  Thou  high  reverence,  which 
movest  with  scruples  and  puttest  off  thy 
shoes  in  presence  of  the  things  of  mind 
in  the  chambers  of  thought!  What  help 
cometh  from  thee,  what  quickening  of 
powers,  what  freshening  of  vision,  what 
rejoicing  of  labor!  Truly  not  only  he 
writeth  who  hath  the  pen  in  his  hand,  but 
she  as  much,  or  more,  who  holds  the  hand 
in  her  hand.  What  words  can  tell  how 
much  my  Sister  composes  what  I  write 
because  she  composes  me!  I  breathe  of 
her,  as  of  the  air,  and  what  were  the  body 
without  the  air  in  the  blood?  She  is  the 
fuel  in  my  heart,  and  what  have  I  in  head 
which  comes  not  from  heart?  To  be  so 
encompassed  with  respect,  as  with  an 
illumined  air,  to  behold  always  that  I  am 
deemed  worth  guarding  and  helping — yet 
not  so  much  I  as  the  things  of  thought — 
to  be  nourished  at  need  with  a  sacred 
silence  full  of  love,  such  as  a  worshiper 
takes  with  him  into  a  church,  how  can  I 
describe  what  a  fountain  this  is  to  dip  a 
pen  into!  Gentle  and  dear  Marian,  thou 
mindest  me  of  some  truthful  words  of 
D'Israeli:  "A  woman  friend,"  says  he, 
"amiable,  clever  and  devoted,  is  a  pos- 
session more  valuable  than  parks  and  pal- 
aces; and  without  such  a  muse,  few  men 
can  succeed  in  life,  none  be  contented." 
134 


Happiness. 

When  my  Sister  shall  review  these  pages, 
belike  I  shall  have  a  struggle  with  her; 
nay,  I  know  that  I  shall.  But  let  her  be 
advised;  she  shall  not  spoil  my  book  by 
taking  herself  out  of  it.  But  belike  she 
will  be  more  appeased  if  also  by  another 
woman  I  give  example  of  these  nursing 
and  brooding  graces,  these  tender  rever- 
ences and  spirit-bred  considerations  where- 
with Marian  brings  the  power  of  me  to  its 
best  and  makes  it  joy.  I  mind  me  well 
and  happily  of  my  Sister's  delight  in  this 
*  woman  and  praise  of  her;  nay,  Marian 
allowed  herself  even  some  strong  words 
about  the  crimes  of  women  who  spoil 
thoughts  and  crush  visions,  and  "no 
woman,"  said  she,  "is  love-fit  to  cook  or 
housekeep  for  a  man's  body  who  reveres 
not  her  offices  to  his  business  or  his  art." 

"And  would  you  say  not  the  same  of  a 
man's  offices  to  a  woman?"  said  Sidney 
Morse,  who  was  present  at  the  time. 
"Assuredly,"  said  Marian,  "I  draw  no 
unnatural  lines;  I  say  only  that  whosoever 
respects  not  another's  gifts  of  mind,  and 
makes  not  way  for  them  reverently,  is  no 
lover." 

These  words  befell  by  reason  of  a  report 

which   Sidney  had  been  giving  us  of  the 

words  spoken  to  him   by  one  of  our  elder 

poets,  of  the  precious  ministries  and  ven- 

135 


Happiness. 

erations  of  the  poet's  wife.  "She  is  a 
fount  of  inspiration  just  by  her  reverent 
care, "  said  the  poet.  "Often, "  said  he,  "I 
have  sat  at  my  table  a  long  forenoon  vainly 
gazing  after  a  fancy  that  flitted  like  a  song- 
bird about  me  but  would  not  be  seized; 
and  so,  I  being  just  on  the  verge  of 
obtaining  the  coy  sprite  of  thought,  has 
come  the  hour  of  the  midday  meal.  But 
there  was  no  piercing  clang  of  a  bell 
allowed,  and  no  rude  bursting  into  my 
study  nor  breaking  of  my  quiet,  to  drive 
away,  belike  forever,  the  fair  image  I ' 
just  was  coaxing  near;  not  any  such 
thing,  but  a  slow  opening  of  my  door  and 
my  wife's — never  any  other — pretty  head 
softly  looking  in,  and  a  contented  smile, 
and  a  voice  like  a  love-silence,  saying, 
'  Dear,  it  is  the  hour,  but  there  is  not  the 
least  need  of  your  coming  if  you  are  too 
sacredly  busy.'  And  I  tell  you,  friend 
Sidney,"  said  he,  "that  the  best  things 
that  ever  I  have  done  with  my  pen  have 
been  written  after  such  a  reverence  from 
my  wife.  It  was  as  if  she  poured  her 
religious  mind  before  me,  and  said,  <  Dip 
your  pen  therein/  and  I  did  so." 

Such-like  is  my  Sister, — the  fine  rever- 
ence of  her  perfect  love  is  "daily  bread  " 
on  which  feeds  the  Hope  of  my  dreams. 
But  last  evening,  as  I  have  said,  she  kept 
136 


Happiness. 

not  her  wonted  loving  distance,  her  rever- 
ent waiting,  but  took  possession  of  me. 
Soon  then  we  were  seated  in  the  little 
porch  in  the  last  tenderness  of  the  twilight, 
my  Sister  on  a  little  low  chair  to  which  she 
has  taken  liking  since  she  acquired  her  gui- 
tar music.  My  thoughts  were  reverting: 
to  some  work  I  had  in  hand  and  had 
looked  to  continue  in  the  evening,  when  I 
was  recalled  by  my  Sister's  hand  gently 
pressed  into  mine.  Looking  down  on  her 
face,  I  saw  instantly  that  her  heart  was 
quite  full,  and  even  the  mist  of  a  tear  in 
her  eye.  Thereupon  I  clasped  her  hand 
closely;  but  said  lightly,  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  thee?  Art  glad  or  sad?" 

"Both,"  said  she. 

"  Thou'rt  always  full  of  thy  paradoxes, " 
said  I.  "Come,  account  for  thyselL 
Open  thy  fine  reason  and  show  me  how 
thou  art  glad  and  sad  at  once." 

"Why,  thousee'st,  Brother,  I  found  some 
time  to-day  to  sit  me  at  thy  table  to  read  a 
bit, — which  was  '  good,  very  good,  very 
excellent  good; '  but  there  I  found  a  song; 
written  by  thee, — which  was  ill,  very  ill,, 
very  excellent  ill." 

"What,  the  song?" 

"  No,  but  the  finding  of  it." 

"  Why  then  lose  it  again/  where  it  was,, 
and  all  is  mended." 

137 


Happiness. 

"It  was  a  song  to  thy  Sister,  dear;"— 
there  was  just  the  faintest  unwontedness 
in  the  voice  which  might  betoken  a  hurt 
feeling.  I  laid  my  other  hand  on  that 
dear  head. 

But  I  said  lightly,  "Ah!  yes,  I  remem- 
ber. A  little  thing." 

"Thou  should'st  have  given  it  to  me, 
Brother. " 

"Why,  troth,  I  set  it  aside  to  cool,  that 
then  I  might  judge  whether  it  had  good 
flavor  enough  to  offer  thee." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  thee?"  cried 
:my  Dozen,  raising  her  head.  "  I  have  told 
thee  over  and  over  thou  art  not  fit  to  judge 
thine  own  things.  Belike  thou  wilt  have 
me  din  that  at  thee  every  morning  and 
inquire  of  thy  obedience  every  night." 

"Ah!" 

"'Tis  so.  Is  it  not  enough  for  thee  to 
write,  but  thou  must  make  shift  to  judge 
too?  I  tell  thee  again,  I  will  do  the  judg- 
ing, and  the  instant  a  song  has  fled  thy 
pen,  it  is  to  nest  in  my  mind.  It  is  not  to 
^wing-weary  itself  in  a  void,  like  the  dove 
out  of  the  ark,  which  could  find  no  place 
for  the  sole  of  its  foot.  Dost  think  I  am 
no  better  than  a  waste  of  waters?  " 

"Ah!" 

"Besides,"  continued  my  Dozen,  "if  it 
l)e  a  song  to  me  (and  methinks  it  is  an  un- 
138 


Happiness. 

pardonable  long  time  since  thou  hast  writ 
me  a  song),  then  the  more  I  am  to  have  it 
instantly,  good  or  ill.  If  it  be  as  homely 
as  Audrey,  it  is  '  a  poor  thing,  Sir,  but 
mine  own.'  " 

"Come,"  said  I, — "for  truly  I  have  for- 
gotten that  song — read  it  me,  if  the  twilight 
will  serve  yet,  thatr-I  may  know  what  color 
it  hath  when  washed  in  thy  voice." 

"  I  will  do  better,"  said  Marian  blithely, 
"I  will  sing  it  thee.  Thou  canst  not  con- 
ceive my  delight  when  I  found  it,  Brother, 
except  for  my  displeasure  aforesaid.  When 
I  had  read  it  over  many  times,  and  ex- 
amined its  beauties  of  form  in  the  way  thou 
hast  taught  me,  suddenly  came  to  mind 
with  it  a  German  folk-melody  which  we 
like," — <Wenn  ich  die  Blumlein  schau,' 
thou  knowest — and  when  I  had  tried  them 
together,  lo!  a  wonderful  fitness,  as  if  they 
had  come  to  earth  involved  in  each  other. 
I  think  the  music  floated  back  of  thee 
while  thou  wast  writing  the  delicate  words 
to  thy  Sister.  The  song-tones  were  the 
shifty  sprites  which  shoveled  thy  song- 
words,  as  fast  as  they  came  forth,  into  a 
tempo;  and  they  showed  good  taste,  the 
fine  pixies,  in  seizing  thy  song  to  them- 
selves. Thou  shalt  hear!  " 

At  this  my  Dozen  fetched  her  guitar,  and 
on  the  low  chair  again,  tuned  the  tender  in- 
139 


Happiness. 

strument.  Her  tuning  always  is  delicious 
to  me,  it  is  so  deft,  and  the  straying  sounds 
are  like  the  murmurs  of  falling  waters. 
When  all  was  in  accord,  she  wove  aeolian 
sounds  absently  a  few  moments,  ceased 
slowly  as  a  zephyr  expends,  her  hands  fell, 
clasped  across  the  strings,  she  leaned 
slightly  on  one  elbow,  and  gazed  off.  I 
looked  at  her,  stilly  and  reverently,  ad- 
miring her  delicate  beauty,  observing  the 
genius-line  of  the  perfect  recurve  of  her 
brow,  feeling  the  spiritual  space  about 
her,  loving  her  adoringly,  wondering  what 
visions  were  ministering  to  her,  what  her 
sweet  being  was,  what  -a  woman  is,  what 
I  was,  what  any  man  is,  yea,  or  any 
creature.  I  have  seen  persons  look  out 
over  the  sea  as  my  Sister  then  was  looking, 
— over  the  sea,  drawing  from  it  into  their 
eyes  a  look  of  the  infinite.  The  ocean 
sometimes  will  give  to  any  one  such  eyes 
as  the  child  in  the  Sistine  Madonna  has. 

My  Sister  from  her  gaze  turned  to  me 
with  a  smile  which  was  like  the  twilight 
suddenly  perceived  to  be  a  mystery  of  love, 
laid  down  her  instrument,  arose  and  looked 
on  me,  laid  her  hand  on  my  head,  so  stood 
a  few  moments,  looking  on  me,  and  then 
off  and  then  back  to  me.  At  last  look- 
ing long  on  me,  "Ah!  my  Brother,"  said 
she,  gave  me  on  my  forehead  a  kiss  which 
140 


Happiness. 

was  like  the  evening  light  made  tangible 
an  instant,  and  then  on  her  low  chair  again 
enfolded  her  guitar. 

"  The  horizon  caught  me  and  suddenly 
floated  me,  Brother,"  said  Marian.  "  Yon- 
der paling  green-gold  suddenly  spread 
forth  to  me  till  it  seemed  to  meet  my  eyes 
and  go  all  around  me  and  behind,  and  I 
was  afloat  on  an  unmoving  sea,  opal, 
virescent,  aureate,  from  my  eyes  to  infinity. 
But  now  I  will  sing  thee." 

The  song  was  what  I  had  written  the 
morning  after  Marian  had  made  me  ac- 
quainted with  her  guitar  and  first  had  sung 
for  me  to  its  half-spiritual  sounds.  I  had 
named  my  verse 

SISTER   AND    SONG. 

I  said,  "  I  pray  thee,  O  Song, 

Come  hither  and  sing  to  me; 
Sing  me  a  lay  as  sweet  and  strong 

As  in  heart  can  be." 

Said  Song,  ' '  Why  should  I  sing, 

And  why  call'st  thou  to  me? 
That  tell  me,  before  I  will  bring 

Music  to  thee." 

"For  her,  the  dear,  the  sweet, 

I  wish  thee  to  sing,  O  Song, 
That  I  may  drop  at  her  gentle  feet 

Lays  sweet  and  long." 


Happiness. 

Said  Song,  ' '  O  not  for  her 

Can  I  give  music  to  thee; 
If  but  her  gentle  breath  she  stir, 

She  sings  to  me." 

Said  Song,  "  Not  for  her  ear 

Music  can  I  confer; 
If  she  but  speak,  'tis  I  must  hear, 

And  listen  to  her." 

This  my  Sister  sang  to  a  tune  lovely  and 
simple,  one  of  those  strangely  perfect  folk- 
melodies  which  spring  in  the  soil  of  a 
musical  people,  often  with  no  name,  no 
composer  to  be  found,  belike  not  made  at 
once,  but  stripped  bit  by  bit  from  some 
cumbrous  but  finely-souled  form,  to  a  com- 
plete lithe  grace  which  could  not  spare 
another  film  nor  bear  another  hair's  weight, 
full  of  the  fire  of  genius  and  tender  feeling. 

With  the  ceasing  of  the  song,  my  Dozen 
laid  the  guitar  tenderly  within  the  door- 
way. She  always  treated  her  instrument 
like  a  living  thing.  Then  on  my  knee 
she  laid  her  hand,  which  again  I  cov- 
ered with  mine,  and  on  that  as  before  she 
laid  her  face  and  looked  out  on  the  even- 
ing. Day  had  contracted  to  a  narrow 
band  at  the  horizon.  The  fancy  came  to 
me  that  it  was  Light's  gold  ring  on  the 
finger  of  Night,  who  was  a  bride  drawing 
the  curtains  of  their  windows.  Soon  she 
would  be  mother  of  stars. 
142 


Happiness. 

Marian  was  content  with  a  long  silence;, 
but  at  last — 

"Well?"  said  she. 

11  Thy  music,  dear  Dozen,"  said  I,  "so 
hath  mixed  with  the  hour  and  place,  with 
yonder  zephyr  in  the  bushes,  and  with 
my  spirit,  that  it  hath  made  all  one,  and 
seems  not  to  have  ceased  but  to  be  fixed. 
Canst  not  hear  it,  dear,  as  a  painter  steps 
away  a  little  to  view  what  he  has  done?  " 

,"It  is  no  wonder,"  said  Marian,  "if  the 
song  has  melted  all  things  to  one,  since 
the  words  and  music  of  it  make  such  a 
wedding.  Is  it  not  perfect?  " 

1  'Truly  thou  hast  made  my  song  with 
thy  music,"  said  I,  "as  one  makes  a  gem 
who  turns  the  light  on  it,  or  as  the  eye 
does  so  with  the  printed  page;  for  the  gem, 
and  the  paper  and  ink,  are  but  dead  in 
themselves." 

"No,"  said  Marian,  "the  gem  and  the 
page  have  a  living  soul;  else  nor  light  nor 
eye  would  do  aught.  Thy  song  is  a  deli- 
cate, sweet  fancy  in  itself,  with  words  and 
rhythm  fit  for  it,  and  dear  to  thy  Sister's 
heart.  But  the  words  and  the  melodyr 
Brother,  do  they  not  join  wonderfully?" 

"It  is  indeed  a  lovely  unity,  my  Dozen,"" 
said  I.  "  Thy  fine  sense  caught  at  a  true 
likeness  of  soul  when  that  melody  was 
called  up  in  thee." 

143 


Happiness. 

"Thou  phrasest  it  well,  Brother, — alike- 
ness  of  soul.  And  what  a  mystery  is  the 
soul  of  a  melody!  I  know  no  more  of  it 
than  one  little  negative,  that  it  does  not  lie 
in  the  metre;  for  often  I  have  noted  that 
one  may  take  a  very  perfect,  beautiful  lyric, 
and  a  very  perfect,  sweet  melody  of  the 
self-same  metre  and  movement,  put  them 
together,  and  lo!  nothing  but  an  ugliness. 
Each  one  wholly  undoes  the  beauty  of  the 
other." 

"  The  metre  and  time  may  be  called  the 
/fM^nralities  of  the  songs,  both  the  song 
verbal  and  the  song  musical,"  said  I. 
"Now,  not  of  anything  nor  of  any  person 
lies  the  soul  in  the  temporalities." 

"Ha!  a  conceit  with  a  real  thought  in 
it,"  said  Marian.  "It  is  a  mystery. — I 
^wonder . " 

"Thou  wonderest,"  said  I,  after  a  si- 
lence. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  she,  "I  was  wonder- 
ing whether  it  may  not  be  with  persons 
as  with  poem  and  melody,  that  two  very 
fine  spirits  may  spoil  each  other.  Me- 
thinks  I  have  observed  somewhat  the  like 
of  this — two  persons  each  with  a  beauty 
and  fine  value,  but  they  could  not  be  so 
much  as  in  the  same  room  without  an  ugly 
confusion.  They  have  a  fatal  readiness 
for  mingling,  which  is  like  the  one  metre 
144 


Happiness. 

in  the  poem  and  the  music,  but  they  only 
distort  each  other." 

" True,"  said  I,  "and  that  shows  it  is 
not  easy  always  to  know  wherein  the 
temporalities  consist  which  make  possible 
a  mixture  but  not  a  oneness.  'Tis  not 
merely  in  outward  trappings.  The  metre, 
though  a  temporality,  is  yet  a  very  part  of 
that  verse  and  of  that  melody." 

"Yes,"  said  Marian;   "it  is  a  mystery." 

"  One  thing  I  have  not  said  which  ought 
to  be  said,  dear,"  said  I,  "which  is  that 
thy  singing  was  very  beautiful.  Thou 
didst  sing  with  a  rare  delightful  expression 
as  well  as  truth,  and  thy  voice  seemed  to 
me  like  to  this  scene  around  us,  a  beauty 
which  hath  this  house  and  home  in  the 
midst  of  it." 

Suddenly  a  gold  glint  shot  through  the 
foliage  and  fell  quivering  in  the  porch. 

"  Diana's  arrow,"  cried  my  Sister. 
"The  late  moon,  Brother.  Let  us  say 
good-night.  But  first  let  us  sing  that 
tender  little  night  prayer  thou  didst  English 
long  ago,  Milde  bin  ich>  ge/i1  zur  ruh\  'Tis 
long  since  we  sang  it,  even  many  months. 
Then  we  had  only  our  voices,  now  the 
voices  of  the  strings  too." 

So,  to  the  guitar's  music  we  sang  the 
sincere,  religious  little  folk-melody: 


H5 


Happiness. 

Weary  am  I,  go  to  rest; 
My  two  eyes  with  sleep  are  pressed. 
Let  thine  eyes,  my  Father,  be 
On  my  bed  and  over  me. 

All  to  me  who  precious  stand, 
Lord,  let  rest  within  thy  hand. 
All  men,  great  and  small,  shall  be 
Safe  enfolded,  kept  by  thee. 

Send  to  grieving  hearts  repose, 
Weeping  eyes  in  slumber  close; 
In  thy  heaven  delay  the  moon, 
The  still  earth  to  look  upon. 

Then,  "Good-night,  dear  Dozen,"  said 
I,  and  quoted,  "Sleep  give  thee  all  his 
rest." 

"With  half  that  wish  the  wisher's  eyes 
be  pressed,"  quoted  she,  gaily  and  affec- 
tionately. 

The  evening  had  been  so  delightful  that 
wholly  I  had  forgotten  my  letter.  But  as 
I  lay  my  head  on  my  pillow  it  recurred  to 
me.  What  could  mean  Dozen's  silence 
about  it?  Had  she  not  received  it  per- 
haps? But  yes,  the  pink  ribbon,  the  toast 
and  marmalade  had  appeared  duly.  Those 
could  not  be  chance  haps.  Much  puzzled, 
I  fell  asleep.  But  I  was  awaked  this 
morning  with  a  doing  away  of  the  mystery. 
I  was  aroused  by  a  leap  on  my  bed  and 
the  cool  nose  of  our  little  Fun  thrust  into 
my  face.  Hanging  about  her  neck  by  a 
146 


Happiness. 

pink  ribbon  was  a  letter,  my  Sister's  letter 
in  answer  to  mine  of  yesterday.  As  I 
said  in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter, 
Fun  was  my  Dozen's  chosen  postman. 
Ah!  the  wiles  of  my  Dozen,  her  inven- 
tions, her  freaks,  her  changes,  her  frolics, 
her  soberness — at  one  time  as  still  as  the 
deep  sea,  as  votive  as  an  altar,  as  serious 
as  the  sky,  at  an  other  time  as  babbling 
and  freakish  as  a  "bickering  brook." 
What  say  you,  reader? — "You  see  nothing 
in  the  device?  It  was  foolish,  forsooth 
inane,  a  silly-girlish  thing,  to  send  the 
letter  by  the  dog?  "  Well,  I  pray  thee  let 
be  my  Dozen's  follies.  I  like  them.  I 
would  not  have  her  cured — no  more  than 
Orlando  would  be  cured  because  "Mon- 
sieur Melancholy"  liked  not  his  doings. 
When  Jacques  disparaged  him  for  marring 
the  trees  with  his  verses,  Orlando  bade 
him  mar  no  more  of  his  verses  by  reading 
them  ill-favoredly.  Read  not  you  my  Sis- 
ter's whimseys  ill-favoredly.  Without 
doubt  you  can  mend  many  things  in  the 
world,  good  reader,  and  chiefly  yourself; 
but  not  my  Dozen. 

Soon  I  was  ready  to  sit  at  open  window 
with  the  letter,  mingling  the  reading  of  it 
with  the  freshness  of  the  morning  and  a 
delicious  composition  of  odors  from  patches 
of  earth  newly  worked,  from  a  flower  gar- 
147 


Happiness. 

den,  a  trellis  of  yellow  roses,  a  clump  of 
arbor-vitae,  and  the  fine  grass  of  a  neigh- 
boring lawn  mown  the  day  before.  Here 
is  the  letter: 

OUR  STUDY,  June  — 
Good  morning,  thou  Brother  mine.  As 
thou  didst  surprise  me  yesterday  with  an 
early-eve  letter  to  forerun  thy  return  from 
the  city,  I  have  arisen  early  to  open  thy 
day  with  a  letter.  'Tis  a  rarely  beautiful 
morn.  The  air  is  full  of  the  stir  and  fra- 
grance of  green  things  growing,  and  the 
cheery  little  birds  are  sounding  their 
joy-notes.  Mayhap  they  are  the  very 
"feathered  darlings"  of  which  thou  didst 
write  so  gently  in  thy  surprise-letter  yester- 
.day.  Yes,  I  do  own  to  being  surprised. 
,At  first  I  thought  it  but  a  business  note, 
.about  something  forgotten,  or  the  like;  but 
-soon  I  knew  my  mistake.  Deeply  moved 
was  I  by  thy  letter,  my  Brother,  and  by  thy 
thought  to  write  it.  It  brought  memories 
of  our  parted  years.  Dost  remember  that 
then  thou  didst  write  me  every  day? 
Never  didst  thou  fail,  but  sometimes  sur- 
prise me  with  two  letters.  They  were  my 
wells  of  joy  in  a  desert  land,  reached  by  a 
day's  journey.  But  I  will  not  talk  of  the 
past,  but  of  the  bright  and  happy  present. 
And  yet,  Brother,  happy  as  it  is  to  live 
148 


Happiness, 

together,    there  was   some  loss  when  thy 
letters  ceased. 

Our  neighbor,  Mrs.  Rivers,  came  in, 
just  as  I  had  finished  reading  thy  letter, 
and  I  showed  it  to  her, — being  very  proud, 
thou  knowest,  of  a  certain  Brother  of  mine. 
She  praised  it  to  my  content  and  said  a 
kind  word  of  thy  thoughtfulness  in  writing 
the  letter.  Mayhap  I  will  tell  thee  what 
she  said  when  thou  shalt  come  to  breakfast, 
if  thou  wilt  coax  me  to  do  so. 

Dost  remember  the  gentle  girl  who 
passes  by  every  day,  the  one  who  dresses 
so  shabbily  that  even  thou  hast  noticed  it? 
Well,  I  learned,  from  our  neighbor,  that 
she  has  been  supporting  a  brother  through 
an  art  school  on  her  pay  as  a  teacher. 
Just  think  what  privations  she  must  suffer 
for  her  brother's  sake.  Yet  our  neighbor, 
who  knows  her  well,  says  that  she  is  one 
of  the  cheeriest  of  bodies,  always  ready  to 
"lend  a  hand,"  and,  though  she  loves 
beautiful  things  and  would  fain  have  them, 
never  impatient  because  of  her  privations 
or  apparently  conscious  that  she  is  doing 
aught  noteworthy. 

Thou  must  know  our  neighbor  better, 
Brother,  for  she  is  a  delightful  companion 
and  hath  a  mind  stored  with  fair  thoughts. 
She  told  .me  of  another  of  her  "mind- 
pictures,"  as  she  names  them.  It  was  of  a 
149 


Happiness. 

gentle  brown-eyed  girl  who  is  alone  in  the 
city  with  her  father,  and  as  she  is  em- 
ployed during  the  day  and  he  during  the 
night,  they  see  each  other  but  once  a 
week,  on  Sunday.  But  each  night  she 
writes  to  him,  telling  of  all  that  has  hap- 
pened to  her  during  the  day.  Does  not 
that  bring  a  fair  picture  to  thy  mind? 

Because  of  my  early  rising  breakfast  is 
nearly  ready,  and  I  bid  thee  hasten  down; 
else  will  the  cocoa  be  cold  and  I  shall  greet 
thee  crossly.  Have  I  not  heard  thee  talk 
wisely  of  the  beauty  of  starting  on  the  day 
aright?  Make  it  possible  for  thy  Sister  by 
coming  quickly.  I  expect  thee  to  praise 
me  exceedingly  for  being  able  to  keep  these 
bits  of  nothings  over  night,  and  in  return 
mayhap  I  will  talk  of  thy  surprise-letter. 
Bring  Fun  down  with  thee.  I  warrant  she 
will  curl  up  on  the  white  counterpane. 

DOZEN. 

Ah!  the  immensity  of  the  value  of  per- 
sons to  each  other,  and  of  kind  deeds  and 
affectionate  inventions  between  them,  for 
the  making  of  happiness!  A  common 
thought,  very  common.  Who  will  gainsay 
it?  Who  will  not  hasten  to  say  it  is  so, 
and  then  mayhap  think  he  has  said  naught 
to  much  purpose,  because  "it  goes  with- 
out saying?  "  But  to  confess  a  fact  of  na- 
150 


Happiness. 

ture,  as  one  may  admit  a  fine  picture  to  be 
hanging  on  the  wall,  may  be  far  from  hav- 
ing a  feast  of  soul,  but  rather  like  a  smack 
of  cold  victuals  of  knowledge,  very  far 
from  a  deep  understanding  and  heart-feel- 
ing of  the  meaning  and  power  of  the  fact 
like  as  when  the  eye  clings  to  the  picture 
intelligently,  ravished  with  its  beauty.  So 
one  may  confess,  without  feeling,  the  in- 
estimable value  of  kindness  and  loving  in- 
vention for  bringing  happiness  to  pass. 
Belike  we  shall  feel  the  truth  keenly  if  we 
consider  how  dreadful  this  earth  would  be, 
with  all  its  beauty,  if  one  were  alone  in  it. 
The  sun  might  be  fresh  and  young, 
beaming  on  hills  and  vales  radiant,  dewy, 
filled  with  innumerable  colors  and  odors  of 
fruits  and  flowers,  washed  by  pellucid 
brooks  like  air.  Yet  a  man  doomed  to  live 
alone  therein  hardly  could  keep  a  sane  eye 
to  know  the  beauty;  nay,  belike  he  would 
be  like  a  maniac  fleeing  from  his  own 
fancies.  And  how  he  would  run  to  the 
gentler  creatures  among  the  beasts  if  he 
should  happen  on  such,  how  he  would 
clasp  them  about  the  neck  and  gaze  in 
their  eyes  with  rapture,  invite  their  voices 
and  immerse  him  in  the  sounds,  though 
inarticulate,  coming  from  living  throats, 
from  sensitive  creatures.  Solitude  is  so 
dreadful  that  it  is  thought  tc  add  much  to 
151 


Happiness. 

a  prison-sentence  of  many  years  if  even 
one  day  of  solitary  confinement  be  added. 
Consider,  therefore,  that  though  such  utter 
loneliness  would  be  very  terrible,  still  it 
were  better  than  a  cruel  companion,  better 
than  a  being  like  to  us,  who  therefore 
might  be  a  fellow  in  joys  and  thoughts,  but 
should  spurn  us  unkindly,  fence  himself  to 
live  apart  morosely,  or  hurt  us  treacher- 
ously. By  such  thoughts  we  so  may  clear 
the  mind,  wiping  from  its  true  surface  the 
dust  of  custom,  that  kindness  will  be  im- 
aged therein  brightly,  and  we  shall  see 
vividly  what  a  source  of  happiness  affec- 
tionate fellowship  is.  Surely  we  shall  feel 
strongly  the  immensity  of  the  value  of  per- 
sons to  each  other  if  they  be  very  kind  and 
given  to  affectionate  invention.  In  re- 
newed eyes  and  ears  thereupon,  such  music 
and  light  will  be  apprehended,  that  all 
voices  will  be  sweeter  with  influence  and 
all  eyes  splendid  with  reflection.  The  air 
of  that  quality  of  love  will  fill  houses  as  the 
sea  fills  a  shell  and  feeds  the  creature  in  it. 
And  it  is  past  computing  what  sum  of  hu- 
man joys  will  be  created,  or  what  beauty  a 
warm  happiness  will  make  grow  in  the 
human  face — with  invention. 


152 


Encouragement. 


XVI. 

Well  I  remember  a  letter  from  my  Sister 
which  greatly  heartened  me  both  by  its. 
love  and  wisdom,  and  by  a  word  of  re- 
proach for  a  weakness  in  me  which  I  had 
discovered  to  her.  I  was  absent  from  that 
most  precious  friend  of  my  spirit  for  three 
years  in  a  far  place  (Ah  !  a  long  and 
lonely  time  it  was!)  where  I  had  hard 
duties  and  heart-sickness,  with  sad  short- 
coming of  sound  plans — so  they  seemed — 
and  sore  anxieties  about  my  Dozen  who 
was  toiling  beyond  her  strength  and  alone 
at  her  place;  for  it  was  before  we  had  be- 
come able  to  make  this  town-cottage  home 
for  ourselves — ever  blessed  be  it!  I  wrote 
my  Sister  a  plaintive  letter  in  which  I  let 
slip  an  indication  that  I  had  turned  on  my- 
self a  small  rill  of  pitying  concern  from  a 
kind  person  whom  I  encountered.  This, 
she  liked  not.  It  has  been  a  trait  of  Mar- 
ian always  that  she  is  averse  to  commiser- 
ation, and  indeed  by  no  means  can  bear  it. 
For,  says  she,  "to  pity  myself  were  the 
most  pitiable  thing  that  could  befall  me. 
153 


Encouragement. 

How  then  can  I  permit  from  another  what 
even  from  my  own  soul  to  me  is  too  dis- 
respectful?" This  was  the  occasion  of  a 
letter  from  her  which  was  full  of  good 
meat  done  up  with  love,  but  not  a  word 
said  she  of  my  atony, until  the  last  sen- 
tence. Thus  she  ended:  "  Finally,  Bro- 
ther, cheer  thee!  take  heart!  be  of  good 
courage!  and  above  all,  wear  a  brave  face. 
The  world  loves  courage,  Brother,  and  it 
is  noble."  Ah!  triple  steel  around  me  and 
a  Damascus  blade  in  my  hand  did  those 
words  arm  me  withal!  And  a  force  of 
heart,  without  which  breast-plates  and 
swords  are  baggage!  And  some  shame! 
Yea,  verily;  but  only  as  salt  to  joy.  For 
Avhat  joy  have  I  on  earth  like  to  my  rever- 
ence for  my  Sister  and  the  beholding  her 
grand? 

The  worth  of  encouragement  is  very 
great.  Kindness  has  a  very  far-going 
iorce  in  it  by  the  virtue  and  wings  of  en- 
couragement. For  courage  is  the  force 
with  which  we  begin  a  work,  and  it  is 
little  like  that  we  shall  grow  in  power  if 
we  begin  faintly.  For  difficulties,  in  any 
-endeavor,  are  as  certain  as  drops  in  a  rain 
or  gusts  in  a  wind,  and  commonly  they 
cluster  and  jostle  at  the  beginning  while 
the  hopes  wait  modestly  behind.  If  there- 
iore  we  begin  timorously  and  with  boding 
154 


Encouragement. 

heart,  the  first  two  or  three  of  the  difficul- 
ties will  trip  us  up  before  a  hope  can  get 
us  by  the  hand.  Whatsoever  we  have  to 
do  and  howsoever  we  be  faithful  in  the 
study  of  it  and  be  full  up  in  skill,  yet  if  we 
go  to  it  shaking  and  with  faint  heart,  we 
can  not  do  what  we  can  do,  but  gasp  and 
tremble,  by  the  vicious  fingers  of  our  terrors 
clutching  the  throat  of  our  skill.  This  we 
may  see  when  the  diffident  present  them- 
selves to  speak  or  sing  or  make  an  instru- 
ment of  music  discourse, 

' '  Where  I  have  seen  them  shiver  and  look  pale, 
Make  periods  in  the  midst  of  sentences, 
Throttle  their  practiced  accents  in  their  fears, 
And,  in  conclusion,  dumbly  have  broke  off." 

Qualification  will  help,  'tis  true,  to  give 
bottom  and  firmness,  but  if  these  be  cut 
from  under  by  a  shrinking  and  apprehen- 
sive spirit,  down  topples  the  mastership 
with  it.  Wherefore  who  has  not  seen  the 
bold  go  farther  with  small  parts  or  little 
proficiency  than  the  misgiving  can  attain 
with  much  faculty  and  sound  instruction? 

Therefore  Kindness  which  applies  it- 
self to  encouragement  may  have  a  vast 
force  of  service  for  any  one;  for  "  courage 
can  erect  our  powers  as  much  as  faint  heart 
or  fear  cast  them  down." 

Courage  is  heart-age,  if  the  first  syllable 
of  it  come  of  the  Latin  cor,  as  through  the 
155 


Encouragement. 

French  it  seems.  To  encourage,  there- 
fore, which  is  to  put  courage  in,  is  to  pour 
of  our  own  full  heart  into  another's  lacking 
one,  like  that  transfusion  of  blood  from  the 
full  veins  of  a  strong  body  to  the  fluttering 
and  empty  pulse  of  one  who  has  lost  much 
of  the  vital  fluid  or  has  had  it  turn 
watery  and  thin.  For  then  by  uniting  the 
two  bodies  by  some  vessels,  the  strong 
blood  flows  from  the  full  heart  into  the 
fainting  channels  and  revives  the  pale 
frame  with  flush  and  force*.  So  is  it  when 
of  the  abundance  of  a  strong  spirit  a  con- 
tact by  love  is  made  with  a  fainting  soul 
and  courage  poured  in. 

It  is  a  virtue  of  encouragement,  and  a 
great  force  or  value  of  kindness  therein,  that 
it  comes  to  us,  very  like,  when  the  sight 
greatly  is  perplexed  or  obscured  and  we 
see  not  the  way.  On  all  sides  are  many 
ways,  and  perforce  we  must  walk  in  one; 
yet  all  set  out  dimly  and  vanish  soon  in 
darkness.  'Tis  then  that  a  great  blessing 
of  hope  may  be  raised  in  us  by  the  kind- 
ness of  a  warm  encouragement.  Nay,  the 
more  dim  and  cloudy  the  affairs,  the  more 
may  hope  expand,  as  then  the  more  it  is 
needful,  if  kindness  give  a  light  of  encour- 
agement; for  they  who  now  have  little 
substance  and  least  can  augur  the  future, 
may  hope  the  most,  and  "hope  never 
156 


Encouragement. 

spreads  her  golden  wings  but  on  unfath- 
omable seas."  In  this  saying  Emerson  is 
like  Paul,  who  says,  "Hope  that  is  seen 
is  not  hope;  for  who  hopeth  for  that  which 
he  seeth?  "  Therefore  it  is  in  the  low  and 
dim  places  of  experience  that  hope  can  be 
bred  and  trained  up  by  encouragement. 
The  kindness  that  pours  in  the  courage 
gives  us  credit  to  "borrow  of  the  future," 
which  is  a  wholesome  debt,  without  usury; 
for  when  the  future  is  come  it  is  ours,  and 
we  inherit  the  debt  with  its  increase. 

Now,  kindness  always  has  power  to 
give  encouragement.  This  is  not  a  hard 
thing.  A  bit  of  good  reason,  a  scrap  of 
cheery  wisdom,  nay,  a  word,  nay,  a  look, 
a  smile,  an  eye  of  love  and  sympathy,  may 
go  far.  If  any  one  have  taken  a  fall,  there 
is  one  good  thing  which  always  we  may 
say  to  him,  with  loving  kindness,  to  wit, 
"  One  failure  is  not  final."  No,  nor  many. 
Wherefore  if  there  have  been  many  falls, 
we  may  change  the  phrase  to  this,  "No 
failure  should  be  the  last  effort."  It  may 
not  be  amiss  to  bring  forward  the  homely 
proverb,  "He  who  gets  up  every  time  he 
falls,  sometime  will  get  up  to  remain 
standing." 

So  may  kindness  speak;  and  more,  with 
but  exclamations,  inspiriting,  martial,  as 
"Up!  "  "  Cheer  thee!  "  "Hearten  thee!  " 
157 


Encouragement. 

"Give  me  thy  hand!"  and  such  like — 
words  without  discourse  or  reasoning, 
but  swift,  and  like  arrows  not  aimed  but 
shot  at  random,  sure  to  hit  if  they  come 
thick  enough,  or  as  one  in  a  rain  is  wetted 
though  no  drop  be  launched  at  him.  It  is 
a  very  beautiful  encouraging  in  this  kind 
which  Orlando  gives  old  Adam.  The  old 
man  "  can  go  no  further,"  but  "  here  must 
lie  down  and  measure  out  his  grave.'* 
"Why,  how  now,  Adam!"  cries  Orlando, 
"no  greater  heart  in  thee?  Live  a  little;. 
Comfort  a  little;  cheer  thyself  a  little.  *  * 
Thy  conceit  is  nearer  death  than  thy 
powers.  For  my  sake  be  comfortable; 
hold  death  awhile  at  the  arm's  length.  *  *  * 
Well  said!  thou  look'st  cheerly.  *  * 
Cheerly,  good  Adam!  "  Thus  may  kind- 
ness discourse  heart  in  words  and  beam  in 
them  with  life,  like  the  coming  of  morning 
in  a  sick-room. 

A  great  and  good  manner  of  encourage- 
ment is  praising.  To  praise  is  the  oppo- 
site of  cheering  one  up.  The  one  com- 
forts in  failure;  the  other  rewards  in  suc- 
cess. The  one  inspirits  for  a  new  endeavor 
to  do  something;  the  other  increases  de- 
light to  go  on  to  do  more.  The  one  en- 
kindles again  a  flickering  spirit;  the  other 
pours  sweet  oil  on  a  fire  already  flaming. 
But  now,  praising  is  a  kindness  both  very 
158 


Encouragement. 

great  and  very  needful.  It  gives  a  very  rich 
and  just  delight.  To  a  noble  spirit,  it  is 
true,  the  great  rewar<4  of  doing  is  the  doing 
and  the  prospect  from  the  height  thereof. 
This  is  a  heroic  peak;  but  unless  there  be 
a  beloved  heart  with  good  gratulation  and 
approval  for  us,  'tis  a  cold  peak,  and  praise 
is  needful.  For  one  works  at  advantage  if 
one  receive  good  meed,  but  at  odds  if 
labor  yield  no  fruit  of  human  approval; 
and  this  is  no  weakness,  but  rather  the  dis- 
covery of  a  heart  in  us.  We  must  preach 
faithfulness  and  devotion  for  themselves, 
whatever  come  of  them,  and  say  they  are 
heroic,  religious;  and  so  they  are.  Yet 
will  I  say  too  that  it  is  a  sad  and  bitter 
loneliness  to  go  on  with  faithful  labors  and 
hidden  good  achievements  with  never  an 
eye  taking  note  of  them  and  never  a  tone 
of  love  delighting  in  them  and  praising 
us.  Nor  know  I  aught  more  churlish, 
yea,  or  more,  thievish,  than  so  to  walk 
by  a  comrade's  side,  inconversable,  un- 
praiseful  of  good  things  done  or  sweet 
virtues  maintained.  It  is  a  very  unloving 
lack  of  kindness,  by  as  much  as  praise 
is  both  a  sweet  joy,  even  unto  tears 
sometimes,  and  a  good  girding.  At  this 
moment,  as  I  write,  I  mind  me  of  a  man 
who  fell  to  scoffing  at  the  heaven  of 
heavens  as  in  the  gospel  it  is  promised^ 
159 


Encouragement. 

for,  said  he,  "I  see  no  real  and  good  joy 
promised,  but  only  feasts  and  crowns  and 
pleasures  and  ease;  which  are  base  tinsel." 
"Yet,"  said  one  who  listened  to  him, 
"there  is  a  passage  wherein  is  described  a 
very  great  joy,  a  most  worthy  and  deep  rec- 
ompense, enough  for  heaven;"  and  then 
told  him  to  read  the  first  twelve  words  of 
Matthew  xxv,  21,  and  he  should  find  that 
wonderful  great  guerdon.  Then  the  man 
looked  into  that  place  in  the  book  and 
iound  these  words,  "His  Lord  said  unto 
him,  Well  done,  thou  good  and  faithful 
servant."  Take  heed  of  this,  ye  who  be 
near  to  each  other;  for  in  what  way  more 
than  in  this  way  can  ye  be  God's  husband- 
men unto  others,  being  as  Paul  names  you, 
•" God's  husbandry"  yourselves?  Praise 
each  other  in  truth  and  love,  and  admire 
one  another,  and  give  it  tongue,  ye  friends, 
ye  brothers  and  sisters.  Ye  husbands, 
praise  your  wives;  ye  wives,  praise  your 
husbands.  And  this  is  a  mating  that  ye 
can  do  on  the  wing,  like  birds,  and  a 
syllable  is  great  discourse.  It  is  one  of 
the  joys  of  love  that  the  vocabulary  of 
praise  is  increased  by  it;  for  large  measures 
of  praise,  and  the  joy  of  it,  may  go  in  a 
look,  a  touch,  and  that,  too,  with  the 
greatest  privacy  in  large  companies. 

Encouragement,   whether  by  a  cheering 
160 


Encouragement. 

up  if  we  faint  or  fall  or  struggle,  or  by 
praise  if  we  run  well,  is  a  delicate  need  to 
every  one.  Some  need  it  more,  some  less, 
but  there  is  no  one  who  has  no  need  of  it, 
and  all  are  the  better  for  it.  Yet  the  need 
is  a  hidden  thing,  like  love's  ache;  and  so 
must  it  be;  for  no  one  can  go  about  saying, 
"Encourage  me."  You  may  go  into  any 
company,  reader,  where  souls  are  fainting 
and  gasping  and  sickening  for  medicinable 
esteem  or  encouragement,  and  you  will  not 
know  them.  Nay,  they  will  laugh  into 
your  eyes  and  be  more  modest  to  the  quick 
to  cover  their  souls  with  smiles  than  their 
bodies  with  garments.  There  is  no  as- 
sembly but  is  a  stalking  place  of  vast  needs 
behind  faces;  nor  can  you  tell  who  needs 
encouragement  the  most,  or  when.  Here- 
in is  a  great  office  laid  on  kindness,  to  con- 
sider and  to  watch,  to  look  on  others  at- 
tentively and  with  a  certain  awe,  as  one 
peers  into  deep  water.  But  if  you  can  not 
discern  the  famishing,  this  is  certain  the 
while,  that  all  ought  to  be  fed  at  due 
seasons  and  plentifully,  nor  can  you  tell 
how  far  the  word  of  encouragement,  nay, 
but  the  tone  of  love,  will  go  with  any  one, 
or  work  what  wonders.  Even  the  un- 
speaking,  inexpressive  horse,  whose  feel- 
ings you  can  not  guess  because  nature  has 
penned  them  in  such  small  gates  of  ex- 
161 


Encouragement. 

pfession,  weary,  jaded,  overstrained,  will 
move  an  ear  quickly  to  catch  the  kind 
word,  will  feel  the  pat  on  his  neck  and  the 
pitiful  voice,  and  resume  his  strength. 
Then 

"  On  the  level  way  he  goes  proudly, 

And  the  arch  of  his  strong  neck  is  lofty; 

A  strange  sound  smites  him  and  he  stands; 

He  tosses  his  head  with  power; 

His  eyes  are  like  burning  coals  which  throw  sparks, 

And  his  nostrils  are  like  swinging  gates. 

He  comes  to  a  high  hill,  and  forsakes  his  pride; 

He  bends  to  his  labor  with  humility; 

The  muscles  are  knotted  in  his  thighs, 

And  his  knees  straighten  like  bended  oak; 

He  hangs  his  head  to  the  ground; 

He  throws  all  his  weight  into  his  labor. 

When    he   has   gone   up,    he   has   overcome    and  is 

strong; 

He  takes  one  deep  breath  and  is  refreshed; 
He  looks  back  at  his  driver; 
He  goes  swiftly  for  the  voice  that  he  loves." 

I  have  heard  that  a  kind-hearted  girl 
passing  a  little  boy  in  the  street,  a  small 
merchant  of  matches,  tape  and  needles,  and 
seeing  how  thinly  he  was  clad,  the  air 
being  biting,  smiled  and  said,  "Are  you 
not  cold,  little  man?"  Then  spoke  the 
small  ragged  knight,  and  said,  "I  was, 
ma'am,  till  you  passed  by."  All  the  fire 
of  the  sun  could  not  have  raised  that  glow 
in  him. 

Stretch  thy  fancy,  reader,  to  his  sleep- 
162 


Encouragement. 

ing  place  (there  is  naught  that  more  I  do 
than  consider  of  people  where  they  sleep); 
is  it  a  far  stretch  that  mayhap  the  small 
cavalier  made  a  few  more  pence  that  day, 
working  later  by  the  heat  of  that  fuel  in 
him,  whereby  his  poor  place  had  more 
coals  that  night  and  more  food? 


163 


Recommendation. 


XVII. 

Encouragement  is  the  speaking  of  the 
right  word  to  any  one,  heartening  him  at 
need.  But  also  to  speak  a  good  word  for 
any  one,  is  a  great  part  of  kindness.  Like- 
wise a  great  power  withal.  To  recommend 
well  goes  far.  Encouragement  rouses  our 
own  minds  at  a  fainting  point;  but  recom- 
mendation puts  knowledge  of  us  in  an- 
other's mind,  and  mayhap  just  when  he  is 
alert  to  catch  at  such  a  service  as  may  be 
had  from  us.  Such  a  kindness,  to  recom- 
mend, often  may  turn  the  current  of  a  life. 
From  a  deed  of  it  may  date  a  career  of 
honorable  achievement,  or  years  of  gentle 
inconspicuous  happiness  which  are  very 
fair  to  the  discovering  eye — the  violets  of 
life,  under  the  oaks  and  pines  which  roar 
back  to  the  storms.  The  benefactions  of 
one  who  has  entrance  and  influence  where 
he  disposes  and  conciliates  others  to  us  at 
point  of  need,  are  like  vapors  from  fortu- 
nate green  places  of  the  earth,  stirred 
about  and  falling  again  in  "rain  upon  the 
mown  field"  which  is  athirst.  Such  bene- 
164 


Recommendation. 

fits  come  not  of  selfish  people;  for  too  little 
they  are  aware  of  others  to  do  such  wake- 
ful work  for  them;  or  worse,  they  give 
strict  heed  to  them  to  jostle  them  aside  out 
of  the  way,  or  to  make  draught-beasts  of 
them  at  their  chariots. 

Recommendation  is  in  three  kinds.  The 
first  kind  is  the  seeking  out  of  a  place 
whereto  to  recommend  one  who  lacks  a 
labor-place.  This  is  a  good  and  loving 
work;  it  is  a  very  positive  kindness,  which 
is  excellent,  not  waiting  to  speak  a  good 
word  if  the  chance  happen,  but  carrying 
the  good  word  in  search  of  a  place  where 
it  will  have  effect. 

The  second  kind  is  the  speaking  warmly 
and  well  when  a  chance  happens  wherein 
we  may  prefer  another  to  some  good  place, 
though  we  have  not  looked  for  it.  Many 
persons  speak  never  warmly  of  others, 
never  generously,  never  with  a,  rush  and 
fervor  of  heart  like  waters  of  praise  pent 
and  glad  to  be  opened;  but  always  with  a 
coolness  and  an  eye  half-shut,  as  if  to  con- 
sider whether  on  the  whole  the  balance  be 
with  better  or  worse  qualities.  This  is  a 
sad  and  cold  blindness  of  the  heart.  Is  it 
too  much  to  call  love  the  eye  of  the  mind? 
This  at  least  will  I  say,  that  love  is  the 
color-sense  of  the  mind's  eye,  receiving 
nature's  hues,  rich,  warm,  lovely;  nay,  two 
165 


Recommendation . 

senses  in  one,  letting  in  a  fragrance  round 
the  heart, — for  which  expression  I  may 
avail  of  Milton's  credit;  Adam,  first  made 
and  waked,  says: 

"About  me  round  I  saw 

Hill,  dale,  and  shady  wood,  and  sunny  plains, 
And  liquid  lapse  of  murmuring  streams;  by  these, 
Creatures  that  lived,  and  moved,  and  walked,  or  flew; 
Birds  on  the  branches  warbling;  all  things  smiled; 
With  frag  ranee  and  with  joy  my  heart  o'erflowed." 

All  life's  color  and  odor  (as  Milton,  again, 
speaks  of  the  "sweet  odor  of  the  Gospel") 
wash  in  vain  on  one  who  has  no  herald 
tongue  for  the  good  graces  of  others.  If 
the  tongue  be  not  a  squire,  'tis  because  the 
heart  is  not  a  knight  and  hath  no  gentle- 
hood wherein  to  become  apprised  of  virtue. 
Or  if  the  heart  be  not  such  a  dullard,  such 
a  color-blind  eye,  but  will  give  no  currency 
to  the  virtues  of  others  which  it  appre- 
hends, then  it  is  worse  off  and  more  un- 
knightly,  for  this  is  a  thievishness  —  as 
Emerson  says,  "Our  very  abstaining  to  re- 
peat and  credit  a  fine  remark  of  our  friend 
is  thievish;"  and  if  this  be  so,  as  to  but  a 
bit  of  our  friend's  wit,  how  much  more  as 
to  his  sweet  and  valuable  virtues.  Under 
this  thievishness  lies  often  a  base  envy  and 
gluttony,  which  grudges  what  is  said  good 
of  another  as  so  much  cut  off  from  oneself. 
Truly  I  have  seen  this  unkind  and  wretched 
166 


Recom  mendation . 

covetousness,  this  clog  on  the  tongue  brak- 
ing it  from  a  warm  exercise  with  another's 
virtues,  this  letting  another  man's  good 
parts  make,  miserably  and  enviously,  a 
burning  spot  just  below  the  heart,  as  it  is 
the  manner  of  envy  to  affect  us  physically. 
The  third  kind  or  manner  of  recommen- 
dation is  that  which  always  is  ready  and 
expressive.  It  hath  a  heart  of  such  sweet 
and  kind  joy  in  admiring  others  that  it  must 
be  uncovering  it  continually;  not  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  offer  wherein  some  prefer- 
ment may  be  made,  nor  going  about  to  find 
a  profitable  place  for  our  friend  who  has 
forced  it  on  our  eyes  that  he  needs  our 
speaking  for  him — not  waiting  for  these 
things,  though  they  be  good  things  to  do; 
but  constantly  speaking  warmly  of  excel- 
lencies which  we  have  taken  note  of  in 
others.  How  lovely  is  this  habit  of  mind, 
this  triple  affection  in  us  unto  excellencies, 
to  see,  to  admire,  to  commend.  How 
sweet  and  comely  are  they  who  do  this,  by 
nature  or  reflection,  how  lovely,  and  what 
beautified  faces  they  come  to.  "It  ye  have 
love  one  toward  another,"  says  an  apostle, 
"God  dwelleth  in  you;"  and  Paul,  "Know 
ye  not  that  ye  are  God's  temple?"  Now, 
such  beauty  being  builded  in  the  body  by 
this  triple  kindness  of  seeing,  admiring, 
commending,  and  bethinking  us  of  the 
167 


Recommendation. 

apostles'  sayings,  we  must  cry,  for  very 
gladness,  with  the  psalmist,  "How  lovely 
are  thy  tabernacles,  O  Lord  of  Hosts!" 
Let  us  have  eyes  for  the  inconspicuous,  in 
whom  often  is  a  very  rare  beauty.  Go  not 
agog  and  staring  at  what  all  men  are  agog 
with,  the  great  and  high-placed  and  far- 
shining;  but  look  about  closely  for  what  is 
passed  by.  Having  therewith  seen  it  and 
made  worthy  observation  of  it,  thereupon 
utter  it.  Noise  abroad  our  discovery  mu- 
sically. Have  good  words  for  the  good 
things,  like  the  gentle  maid  in  the  folk-tale 
who  could  not  open  her  mouth  to  speak 
but  with  the  word  dropped  out  a  pearl. 
This  may  go  very  far,  never  we  can  tell 
how  far,  in  bringing  some  one  to  profitable 
notice  or  helping  him  to  a  good  start;  and 
surely  it  will  go  very  far  in  cheer  and  cour- 
age. To  set  some  good  thing  going  whose 
end  or  spread  of  benefit  we  can  not  tell,  is 
creative,  like  working  with  God. 


168 


Truthfulness. 


XVIII. 

After  speaking  of  the  kindness  of  recom- 
mendation, I  have  come  perforce  to  truth- 
fulness as  kindness.  From  the  last  chap- 
ter to  this  one  the  path  of  thought  is 
thus:  If  justly  we  be  not  able  to  praise  de- 
sirably, then  kindly  we  can  refrain  from 
dispraising  willfully;  if  with  good  heed  we 
can  not  speak  a  good  word,  then  at  least 
we  can  look  to  it  not  to  speak  an  ill  word 
carelessly;  now,  speech  which,  being  ad- 
verse, disserviceable,  hurtful  therewith,  is. 
careless  as  to  seasons,  occasions,  motives 
of  speaking,  is  heartless;  but  adverse 
speech  which  is  careless  and  adventurous 
as  to  the  truth,  is  heartless  and  lying  too. 

If  Emerson's  saying,  before  quoted,  be 
true,  that  abstaining  to  hand  on  and  credit 
the  good  and  fine  things  we  meet,  is  thiev- 
ish, what  then  is  the  spreading  of  the  bad? 
This  is  war;  and  not  open  war,  declared 
and  under  rules,  which,  frightful  evil  as  it 
is,  at  least  may  be  generous;  but  private 
war,  every  man  for  himself  wantonly,  and 
also  unproclaimed,  ambushed,  skulking 
169 


Truthfulness. 

and  hateful  war.  War  it  is,  with  all  that 
belongs  to  war,  the  chief  traits  whereof  are 
destruction  and  lying. 

Now  as  to  the  ruin  wrought  by  private 
war,  where  are  shot  forth  detraction,  strict- 
ure, odium,  fling,  sneer,  cavil, — this  needs 
but  few  words.  As  I  have  spoken  of 
the  power  and  virtue  of  recommendation 
to  lift  up  and  preserve,  the  like  power  as- 
persion has  to  cast  down  and  destroy. 
Nay,  more  power;  for  in  affairs  men  are 
more  fearful  than  trustful,  frightened 
away  by  a  libel  more  than  attracted  by 
good  report.  Therefore  a  defaming  word 
is  a  terrible  thing  very  often,  having  a  vast 
power  of  destruction,  and  once  discharged 
not  to  be  stopped  again.  It  is  like  some 
poisonous  and  horrible  odors,  one  drop  of 
which  will  fill  a  vast  space,  nor  can  it  be 
told  what  it  will  infect  or  how  long  per- 
sist. But  it  is  worse  than  this;  for  ill 
words  not  only  will  shake  or  overthrow 
outward  fortunes,  but,  so  bad  are  they, 
they  will  infect  the  man  himself  of  whom 
they  are  spoken,  to  make  him  worse  if  he 
be  at  all  ill.  For  the  more  people  there 
are  who  think  unworthily  of  him  the  harder 
it  is  for  him  to  do  well  and  not  to  do  ill. 
As  a  man  in  a  sickness  may  be  poisoned 
further  by  his  own  exhalations  if  they  be 
confined  about  him,  so  may  unkind  defam- 
170 


Truthfulness. 

^ 

ations  for  a  fault  make  an  atmosphere  in 
which  it  is  very  hard  to  be  cured  of  the 
evil.  Thus  the  more  an  invidious  report  is 
spread  around  a  man,  by-  unkind  tongues, 
the  harder  it  is  for  him  not  to  stumble  into 
that  ill  more  deeply,  or  into  some  other. 
For  it  is  very  hard  to  keep  a  straight  and 
steadfast  course  over  the  slippery  drop- 
pings of  kindless  tongues.  And  this  is  the 
same  whether  the  report  be  true  or  false. 
For  even  if  false,  it  makes  all  grace  and 
virtue  harder,  which  already  are  hard 
enough,  needing  muniments  with  the  best 
of  us,  and  most  of  all  with  any  who 
boast  and  flourish  themselves  as  self- 
propped.  But  if  the  unkind  report  be 
true  in  some  measure,  and  there  be  in  a 
man  a  grain  or  more  of  that  fault  which  is 
charged,  then  the  more  spread  the  evil 
words  are,  the  more  is  he  hemmed  in  with 
the  fault  and  the  harder  is  made  the  con- 
trary virtue.  Such  is  the  destructiveness 
of  evil-speaking,  the  hateful  state  of  pri- 
vate war,  which  has  no  laws  because  it  is 
too  unhonorable  to  be  considered  —  a  bat- 
tle of  ambushes  and  skulkers  —  such  is  its 
destructiveness,  which  not  only  may  shake 
down  fair  outward  fortunes  or  stop  their 
building,  but  has  an  inward  effect  on  the 
heart  of  the  victim  to  make  courage  and 
virtue  harder  for  him.  But  of  this  I  will 
171 


Truthfulness. 

say  no  more  because  it  is  so  plain;  for  there 
have  been  good  precepts  enough  on  this 
point  at  all  times,  and  if  knowledge  of  how 
filthy  and  black  this  private  war  is  could 
have  destroyed  it,  it  would  have  ceased 
ages  ago.  But  hordes  of  cannibals  survive 
with  us  whose  mouths  are  never  happy  but 
when  chewing  on  the  tender  flesh  of  men. 

Most  I  wish  to  say,  what  not  so  much  is 
reflected  on,  how  vast  and  bad  is  the  lying 
which  is  in  this  treacherous  war.  And 
this  I  mean  strictly,  in  the  full  circle  of 
what  it  is  to  lie.  I  mean  not  merely  that 
one  who  spreads  ill  words  is  like  to  spread 
unfounded  words;  I  mean  he  is  of  a  piece 
with  a  willful  liar  who  devises  and  tosses 
forth  a  bold  falsehood,  The  principle  and 
precept  is  that  careless  and  adventurous 
speech  adverse  to  any  one,  is  direct  and 
abominable  lying. 

I  am  sure  this  is  not  considered  well 
and  strictly;  for  either  people  miss  the 
fact  of  it  and  see  it  not,  or  else  the  world 
is  full  of  liars  more  willful  than  I  can  think 
them.  Liars  they  are,  but  yet  with  a  grain 
less  of  willfulness  than  some;  but  liars 
still,  and  bad  ones.  To  see  this,  attend  a 
little  to  the  notion  of  truthfulness,  and 
what  it  requires  of  us. 

Has  one  fulfilled  the  law  of  truthfulness 
when  he  has  refrained  from  saying  what  he 
172 


Truthfulness. 

knows  to  be  not  true?  By  no  means.  We 
must  be  careful  to  say  only  what  we  know 
to  be  true;  or,  in  reverse  way,  if  that  will 
state  it  more  clearly,  we  must  be  careful  to 
know  anything  to  be  true  before  we  declare 
it.  Not  to  put  forth  what  we  know  to  be 
not  true,  is  but  one  part  of  truthfulness, 
and  the  smaller,  ah!  very  much  the 
smaller.  The  other  and  the  larger  part,  is 
to  take  good  heed  to  know  what  is  true  be- 
fore we  declare  aught.  Why  should  one 
be  called  a  liar  who  willfully  puts  forth 
what  he  knows  to  be  not  the  truth,  yet 
called  no  liar,  but  by  some  milder  name,  if 
he  toss  about  averments,  hints,  implica- 
tions, advices,  with  no  care  or  steadiness 
to  know  whether  they  be  true  or  not?  I 
say  he  is  a  liar,  in  very  point  of  the  larger 
and  more  glorious  part  of  truthfulness; 
which  part  is,  not  merely  to  declare  no 
known  untruth,  but  to  be  delicately  con- 
cerned to  know  the  truth  before  we  aver  or 
adventure  anything.  For  uninformed 
speech,  if  we  adventure  much  in  it,  as  if 
we  had  taken  the  pains  to  be  informed 
which  rightly  may  be  expected  of  us,  may 
be  as  great  a  lie,  in  very  spirit,  as  the 
boldest  falsehood.  To  speak  boldly  with- 
out knowledge,  as  if  we  had  knowledge,  is 
not  this  as  lying  a  thing  as  to  aver  against 
knowledge?  And  when  the  budgets,  bulle- 
173 


Truthfulness. 

tins,  hearsays,  averments,  nods  or  head- 
waggings  which  a  man  thus  adventures, 
concern  the  good  fame  of  others,  and  bear 
hard  on  their  interests  or  labors,  then  is  he 
not  only  a  liar  but  a  most  accursed  liar, 
whose  words  are  spits  of  snaky  venom; 
nor  can  it  be  told  what  filthy  spray  the 
wind  will  make  of  them,  nor  whom  they 
will  sicken  or  kill.  It  is  but  a  whining, 
driveling  plea,  if  he  make  it,  that  he  said 
only  what  he  supposed  to  be  true;  for  it  is 
his  being  void  of  due  care  before  he  speaks 
in  points  so  precious,  which  is  the  lie  in 
him. 

Belike  if  these  words  seem  too  sturdy, 

I  can  make  this  matter  clearer  to  my  reader 
by   a   parable.     A    man   went    forth    one 
morning  into  the  streets  of  a  city,  carrying 
a  gun.      Coming  to  a  street  which  was  full 
of  people,    many  coming   and  going    and 
crossing  in  different  ways,   the  man  said, 

II  Here  have  I  an  itching  to  let  off  my  gun; 
I  will  aim  at  no  one."     But  when  he  had 
done  so,  it  chanced  that  one  of  the  throng 
was  hit  by  the  ball  and  fell  dead.      "Un- 
fortunate," said  he;   "but  I  aimed  not  to 
hit  the  man;"  and  forthwith  he  let  off  his 
gun  again,  and  the  ball  struck  in  the  heart 
of   another    one    who    fell    dead.      "Bad 
luck,"   said  the  man,  "but  I  intended  not 
his   death,    nor   intend    any   man's;  I  but 

174 


Truthfulness. 

fire  my  gun."  Which  then  he  did  again, 
and  another  of  the  thronging  people  was 
killed.  But  now  came  the  amazed  people 
and  seized  him,  saying,  "  You  are  a  mur- 
derer." "Not  so,"  answered  he,  "I 
sought  no  man's  death,  nor  aimed  at  any;, 
I  but  let  my  gun  off."  "But  to  shoot 
carelessly  into  a  throng  of  men  is  murder- 
ous," cried  the  people;  and  he  was  held 
for  a  murderer. 

Let  it  be  said,  now,  whether  the  people 
were  not  right.  To  shoot  from  a  gun  at 
random  in  an  unpeopled  place  were  not 
murder,  though  neither  were  it  shooting, 
with  rectitude;  but  to  shoot  wildly  into  a 
thoroughfare,  is  a  degree  of  heedlessness 
of  life  and  a  hardened  hazarding  of  it 
which  is  murderous  in  spirit,  and  murder 
if  one  be  killed.  Likewise  is  he  a  liar  who 
puts  forth  carelessly  averments  that  are 
blows  and  missiles.  If  he  speak  them  in  a 
desert,  it  counts  nothing,  though  even 
then  to  utter  them  is  not  truth;  but  if  he 
let  them  fly  amid  companies,  where  they 
may  strike  and  maim  or  kill,  it  is  of  the 
nature  of  lying,  and  he  who  does  so  hath 
no  awe  of  the  truth  and  is  a  liar  in  spirit, 
and  thereafter  in  effect  too,  if  the  words 
prove  false  and  work  harm.  For  not 
merely  a  willful  falsehood  is  a  lie,  but  there 
is  a  degree  of  carelessness  about  the  truth,, 
176 


Truthfulness. 

Avhen  others'  fame  or  fortunes  are  in  sus- 
pense therein,  which  is  altogether  lying. 

And  this  is  a  lie  very  accursed,  base  and 
mean  in  some  points  of  its  own.  For  first, 
it  may  be  a  lie  without  temptation,  no 
stress  of  fear  or  gain  in  it,  but  a  wanton- 
ness or  cruelty  unto  the  feelings  and 
struggles  of  others.  Or  if  there  be  in  the 
reckless  words  a  pushing  of  anger  or  spite 
or  self-importance  or  self-interest,  then  it 
is  the  baser  and  worse  still,  a  most  direct 
and  faithless  lie;  and  secondly,  it  is  a 
skulking  lie,  not  bold  and  taking  the  risk 
of  itself,  but  ready  with  such  shelters  as, 
•"I  supposed  it  was  true,"  or,  "I  told  it 
as  I  heard  it,"  or,  "I  argued  so  or  so," 
under  which  these  liars  impudently  claim 
to  be  received  for  truthful  persons. 

If  a  man  have  a  strong  motive  against 
the  truth  and  thereby  fall  from  the  truth, 
still  it  is  a  lie.  But  if  there  be  that  which 
ought  to  be  a  strong  and  high  motive  unto 
truthfulness,  like  the  pains  or  dangers  of 
other  persons,  then  reckless  speech  is  very 
wanton  lying,  as  the  man  heedlessly  shoot- 
ing into  a  busy  highway  is  murderous  in  a 
hardened  manner. 

To   sum  up   in    precepts    (and  is   there 
aught  for  human  happiness  and  love  more 
worthy  of  summing?) — 
/  The  law  of  truthfulness  requires  equally 
176 


Truthfulness. 

/  that  we  aver  not  what  we  know  to  be  not 
true,  and  that  we  aver  not  what  we  do  not 
\  know  to  be  true: 

Especially  if  pangs  or  burdens  or  in- 
terests of  others  be  in  question,  this  latter 
and  more  delicate  part  of  the  law  hath 
great  virtue  and  claim: 

But  to  be  regardless  of  the  virtue  and 
claim  of  truth  is  to  be  a  liar: 

And  to  utter  regardlessly,  without  knowl- 
edge or  surety  or  any  effort  thereunto, 
averments  which  sting  the  peace  or  the 
labor  of  others,  is  to  be  singularly  a  mean 
liar,  unctuous  with  excuses,  as  that  he  did 
no  more  than  any  man,  said  no  more  than 
he  heard  or  thought,  and  the  like, — slip- 
ping out  of  responsibility  like  a  greased 
swine  from  the  hands,  well  oiled  with  pre- 
texts, and  no  offence  in  him  by  which  he 
can  be  held. 

As  this  little  book — may  blessings  go 
with  it,  and  with  her  whose  it  is  more  than 
mine,  by  her  spirit  within  me! — treats  of 
kindness,  it  befits  that  I  return  to  that 
theme,  to  say  what  a  good  kindness  as  well 
as  righteousness  a  careful  truthfulness  is. 
Few  words  are  needed  thereof.  I  said  in 
the  beginning  that  speech  against  any  one 
and  careless  of  occasion  and  motive,  is 
heartless,  and  if  careless  also  about  the 
truthfulness  of  the  averment,  then  it  is 
177 


Truthfulness. 

heartless  and  lying  too.  But  on  the  other 
side — for  how  much  better  it  is  to  look  on 
the  beauty  of  truthfulness  than  on  the  ugli- 
ness of  untruthfulness ! — how  fair,  sweet  and 
heavenly  is  the  kindness  that  lays  hand  on 
another's  fame  as  a  good  physician  touches 
the  body,  never  but  in  love,  to  heal,  and 
never  without  an  awe  of  that  living  thing 
which  is  l '  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made !" 
But  the  heart  is  made  more  fearfully  and 
wonderfully  than  the  body.  We  can  de- 
fend the  body  from  the  hurts  of  criminal 
bungling  and  impious  ignorance  by  decrees 
of  senates  and  colleges.  Not  such  muni- 
ments can  we  build  around  hearts.  They 
have  no  other  defence  than  pious  kind- 
ness. 

Young  ^Etasflorens  looked  with  joy  on  his 
fine  body  and  resolved  to  find  a  perpetual 
youth  for  it.  Long  he  sought  some  elixir 
which  could  bestow  his  desire,  and  at  last 
besought  the  oracle.  "  There  is  no  elixir 
of  youth,"  said  the  oracle,  "nor  can  be, 
until  a  young  man  be  found  who  will  give 
his  own  youth  to  be  made  into  an  elixir." 
" That  will  I,"  cried  ^Etasflorens.  "Go, 
then,"  said  the  oracle,  "and  at  the  very 
top  moment  of  your  youth  you  shall  be 
changed  into  a  wash  which  shall  give  per- 
petual youth  to  others."  So  ^Etasflorens 
lived  ruddily  and  charmingly  till  the  very 
178 


Truthfulness. 

top  of  his  youth  was  attained,  when  sud- 
denly he  was  changed  to  an  ever-flowing 
fountain.  Whoever  bathed  therein  gained 
immortal  youth.  As  thus  the  elixir  to  be- 
stow youth  must  be  made  of  youth,  so 
heart  only  is  medicinable  to  heart,  and 
naught  but  a  sweet  and  heavenly  kindness 
can  deal  with  the  fame  or  the  shame  of  a 
soul,  or  knows  to  take  in  hand  what  affects 
the  labors,  the  pains  and  the  joys  of  others. 
And  how  beautiful  is  this  kindness,  which 
walks  always  among  the  feelings,  the 
names  and  fames  and  interests  of  others 
with  slow  and  reverent  footsteps.  Such 
kindness  will  have  always  the  beauty  of  a 
truthful  spirit,  to  say  naught  but  with  a 
holy  carefulness,  and  to  aver  not  anything 
which  we  know  not  surely;  nor  aught  that 
we  know,  save  by  occasion  and  with  love. 


179 


Fault-Finding. 


XIX. 

Fault-finding  either  is  an  honor  unto  him 
who  is  censured,  or  else  an  extreme  un- 
kindness.  For  in  either  case  it  is  an  inflic- 
tion of  pain.  Now  if  we  be  handled 
painfully  because  we  are  worth  mending 
and  our  life  is  to  be  promoted,  that  is  hon- 
orable to  us.  But  pain  without  this  aim, 
and  but  ruthlessly  or  heedlessly  flung  on 
us,  is  exceeding  unkindness. 

I  like  not  in  my  writing — especially  as  my 
sweet  Sister  has  yet  to  rule  and  pronounce 
on  it,  and  she  sees  never  any  ill  thing, 
having  her  eyes  so  filled  with  the  good, 
unless  the  evil  be  pushed  verily  against 
her  eyes  till  they  smart  with  it;  and  even 
then,  ill  things,  like  flying  dust,  rather 
shut  up  her  orbs  instinctively,  not  to  be 
filled  with  the  irritations  by  staring  at 
them  —  I  like  not,  I  say,  to  treat  of  things 
unkind,  kindness  being  my  theme  and 
beautiful.  But  this  looking  at  an  opposite 
evil  must  be  done  sometimes,  especially  as 
it  may  be  that  we  know  not  how  much  we 
are  infected  with  some  bad  thing  till  we 
180 


Fault-Finding. 

look  at  it  enough  to  see  how  bad  it  is  and 
apply  our  sight  of  it  to  ourselves.  There- 
fore I  must  write  a  chapter  to  say  how 
ugly  and  ungracious  fault-finding  is;  but 
first  I  am  glad  to  perceive  and  say  that  one 
manner  of  it  is  very  honorable  to  him  who 
is  censured  and  to  the  censor  too. 

This  honorable  kind  of  fault-finding  is 
seen  when  one  on  another,  as  friend  on 
friend  or  any  manner  of  lover  on  another, 
lays  a  claim  which  is  an  honor  or  trust, 
and  then  censures  a  falling-short  of  that 
claim.  If  one  claim  of  another  some- 
what to  which  must  go  a  fine  intelligence, 
a  firm  will  and  decision,  a  strong  work- 
power,  an  ideality,  such  a  claim  is  an 
honor,  by  ascribing  these  qualities;  and  if 
there  happen  a  shortcoming,  then  to  find 
fault  with  it  is  the  same  honor  in  another 
form;  as  if  we  conferred  the  two  styles  of 
the  honor  thus:  "What?  You  have  these 
high  qualities?  Then  I  claim  this  or  this 
of  you."  Or  again,  "What!  you  have 
these  high  qualities,  and  fall  short  of  this 
or  this?  That  is  censurable!"  Thus 
may  all  manner  of  lovers  do  each  other 
honor  by  large  claims,  and  large  censure 
therewith.  And  it  will  be  well,  before  one 
resents  a  good  piece  of  fault-finding,  to 
consider  how  much  honor  the  censure  does 
him,  and  whether  the  hidden  praise  in  it 
181 


Fault-Finding. 

may  not  make  up  for  some  sharpness.  For 
fault-finding  may  be  like  a  harmony, 
wherein  a  grave  lower  tone  of  true  moral 
love  and  decorating  claim  may  bear  up  and 
embosom  pleasantly  a  shrill  note,  else  too 
shrill. 

At  this  moment  comes  to  me  an  instance 
in  memory,  wherein  Marian,  my  Sister, 
my  faithful  counselor,  did  me  this  kind 
of  honor  with  a  stern  love.  It  befell  on 
a  birthday  of  that  gentle  Blessing  of  my 
years,  during  that  same  long  parting  of  us 
which  I  have  mentioned.  On  that  day  I 
sent  to  her  a  letter;  for  she  had  signified  to 
me  that  an  epistle  written  day  by  day  for 
some  time  beforehand  would  be  the  most 
acceptable  gift  I  could  devise  for  her  birth- 
day. Now,  I  had  been  busy,  with  much 
running  hither  and  thither;  but  that  is  no 
excuse,  and  truly  I  know  not  how  it  befell, 
and  it  seems  that  Love  like  Homer  may  nod 
sometimes  (and  thereupon  let  him  sleep  a 
bit,  say  I,  or  if  thou  must  awake  him, 
remember  that  it  is  Homer  —  and  Love  — 
whom  thou  stirrest,  and  rouse  him  rever- 
ently with  music  from  his  own  songs),  but 
certain  it  is  that  my  letter  to  my  Sister  was 
a  trifling  and  unthoughtful  thing.  I  mean 
that  no  care  and  pains  went  into  it.  That 
letter  my  Sister  returned  to  me  with  some 
austere  Draconian  words,  saying  that  her 
182 


Fault-Finding. 

heart  had  wept  plentifully  over  it,  but  that 
they  were  fiery  tears;  and  that  she  must 
ask  not  to  keep  a  letter  which  did  her  no 
respect,  and  still  less  was  worthy  of  me. 
"When  I  asked  for  the  gift  of  a  letter," 
said  my  Sister,  "I  asked  for  a  share  of 
thyself;  but  thou  hast  done  no  more  than 
toss  me  the  rind  of  thy  days."  Now,  at 
first,  under  the  unexpected  rebuke,  as  if  a 
dove  had  flown  in  my  face,  I  was  annoyed, 
verging  to  anger;  but  on  thought  I  per- 
ceived that  my  Dozen's  fault-finding  and 
her  disowning  of  a  trifling  thing  from  me, 
was  honorable  to  me;  for  well  I  knew  that 
if  my  unmindful  scraps  were  all  I  had  wit 
to  do,  her  sweet  spirit  would  have  covered 
them  with  love. 

But  fault-findfng,  when  not  thus  an 
honor,  but  a  small  pecking  at  small  faults, 
is  a  bad  unkindness;  very  mischievous. 
This  fitly  is  called  nagging]  and  I  observe 
that  the  learned  say  that  the  verb  nag 
is  another  form  of  gnaw,  and  truly  nag- 
ging bites  and  eats  the  heart  to  pieces,  I 
mean  of  him  who  is  nagged;  and  as  for 
him  who  thus  has  battened  on  another's 
heart,  it  seems  to  profit  him  little,  for 
he  goes  as  lean  and  ill-favored  as  before. 

I  know  not  how  to  treat  this  unkindness 
as  it  deserves  without  falling  into  epithets 
and  declamation,  which  I  like  not;  and 
183 


Fault-Finding. 

there  is  no  need,  for  any  one  will  be  round 
enough  in  his  disgust  with  it  who  will 
consider  but  what  it  is,  and  how  exceeding 
unkind,  and  what  a  fell  fire-bug  to  the  best 
edifices  of  human  happiness. 

It  is  not  hard  to  tell  what  nagging  is— - 
on  a  general  view,  not  too  curious,  for  it 
has  ten  thousand  forms.  Its  essence  is 
that  it  comes  of  settling  the  eyes  on  bad 
things  when  good  are  by  us.  For  the  bad 
will  loose  the  tongue  as  well  as  the  good 
if  only  it  strike  us  as  much.  Now  to  talk 
about  bad  points  continually,  is  to  nag. 
The  only  avoidance  is  not  to  see  the  bad, 
or  to  see  it  but  as  a  spot  on  the  good  sur- 
rounding the  spot  everywhere,  like  the 
small  pits,  or  big  pits,  if  you  will,  yet 
small  by  comparison,  in  the  sun.  Where- 
fore nagging,  in  essence,  is  the  having  an 
eye  for  little  trespasses  and  small  things. 
The  unbearable  issue  of  it  at  the  mouth  is 
but  the  belching  of  a  bad  rumbling  in  the 
heart. 

But  though  it  be  not  hard  to  say  what 
nagging  is,  loquacious  fault-finders  in  this 
manner  are  hard  to  deal  with.  For 
nagging  is  too  little  to  be  made  an  oc- 
casion and  yet  too  much  to  be  borne. 
What  then  one  can  do  if  he  be  nagged  I 
know  not,  unless  he  will  be  ridiculed  on 
the  one  hand,  like  one  who  berates  an  ass 
184 


Fault-Finding. 

for  braying,  which  is  a  solace  to  the 
creature,  though  it  rend  rounder  ears,  or 
unless,  on  the  other  hand,  he  will  be  a 
victim,  like  one  who  sweats  under  a  bur- 
den and  must  bear  it,  though  his  driver  be 
a  clown. 

It  is  sad  that  a  nagger's  voice  goes  so- 
far,  but  there  is  no  help  for  it;  for  he  who- 
will  screech  will  be  heard,  though  he  say 
ill  things  or  even  nothing.  Time  is  said 
to  be  a  great  conqueror,  but  naggers  are 
too  much  for  him.  The  great  bard  says, 
"  Time's  glory  is  to  calm  contending 
kings;  "  but  however  the  ancient  Saturnus 
may  fall  on  monarchs  that  fall  on  each 
other,  he  is  no  match  for  bickering  clowns, 
which  naggers  are.  They  are  not  quieted 
so  easily,  for  their  wrangles  and  snarls  are 
not  on  great  occasions,  which  come  rarely 
and  may  be  done  with,  but  on  the  small 
occasions  of  which  life  is  full.  But  in  an- 
other way  old  Saturnus  makes  tools  of 
carpers  and  naggers  for  his  overthrowings. 
Shakespeare  says  again  that  one  of  Time's 
offices  is  "to  waste  huge  stones  with  little 
water  drops;"  but  by  constant  dropping  of 
the  spume  of  naggers  and  prodders  Time 
wastes  greater  things  than  huge  stones — 
even  huge  saintly  patiences  and  hilly 
wealths  of  happiness,  till  nothing  is  left 
but  a  dust-bin. 

185 


Fault-Finding. 

Charitable  people  who  by  their  own 
sweetness,  or  by  reading  of  the  Stoics,  call 
every  bad  quality  a  sickness  (of  which 
good  company  I  fain  would  be  one,  and 
the  more  the  better) — these,  I  say,  will 
have  it  that  this  nagging  is  a  disease. 
Truly  it  is  like  a  sickness  in  this,  that  it 
grows  fast  if  not  taken  in  hand.  Also  in 
this,  that  it  fills  the  whole  place  with  pes- 
tilent vapors.  Like  some  diseases  also  in 
this,  that  it  is  very  hard  to  cure.  Like 
others  again  in  this,  that  it  is  infectious, 
for  few  are  nagged  very  much  but  they  will 
catch  the  habit  in  a  degree,  or  else  the  dis- 
ease will  take  another  form  in  them  and 
they  will  grow  sullen  or  dispirited.  But 
even  if  it  be  an  illness  and  not  a  crime, 
what  then?  Why  should  moral  sicknesses 
be  borne  with  more  than  physical,  if  they 
be  even  more  pestilential?  If  one  have 
an  infectious  disease  spreading  pain  and 
death  at  touch,  he  is  put  in  a  pest-house, 
where,  if  he  must  die  of  it,  he  may  not 
kill  others;  but  if  he  recover  he  may  come 
out.  If  this  be  reasonable  with  ills  of  the 
body,  why  not  more  still  with  moral  ills, 
which  truly  cast  around  worse  and  deadlier 
germs  than  fevers  and  poxes?  At  the 
Sandwich  Islands,  which  are  burdened 
with  leprosy,  they  have  a  special  island  set 
apart  for  the  infected;  which  is  merciful 
186 


Fault~Finding. 

and  just,  for  there  the  sick  are  no  worse, 
and  they  are  spared  making  the  healthy  like 
to  themselves.  I  think — and  I  would  be  un- 
derstood soberly — that  it  were  well  if  there 
were  a  mid-sea  island  convenient  to  all 
shores  where  the  naggers  of  the  world  could 
be  gathered.  And  this  would  be  the  better 
in  their  case,  for  possibly  it  may  be  hoped 
that  nagging  is  curable,  though  I  fear 
rarely.  Then  not  only  would  they  cease, 
so  banished,  to  drive  Quiet  into  a  corner 
and  twist  the  face  of  Peace  awry,  but  in 
time  they  might  come  out  cured  and  able 
to  live  with  their  fellows  again.  I  have 
heard  of  a  rare  healing  for  quarrelsome 
married  couples,  namely,  that  they  be  shut 
in  a  small  room  for  a  time  with  only  one 
utensil  of  every  kind  needful,  as  one  knife, 
one  fork,  one  spoon,  and  so  a  cup,  a  plate, 
a  chair,  and  so  on,  only  one  of  each;  by 
which  the  patience,  concession,  and  po- 
liteness enforced  by  duly  taking  their  turns 
with  the  articles,  so  prevails  that  they 
grow  to  a  habit  of  mutual  consideration, 
and  come  forth  changed.  Now,  if  the  like 
device  were  followed,  not  with  utensils, 
but  in  a  moral  way,  it  would  not  be  one 
article,  but  one  kind  of  temper  or  quality 
a  company  would  be  furnished  with,  to 
wit,  their  own.  Thus,  if  the  dishonest 
were  islanded  by  themselves,  it  would  fol- 
187 


Fault-Finding. 

low  they  must  steal  all  together,  if  at  all, 
which  were  the  same  as  not  at  all,  since 
none  could  gain  above  another.  Or,  if 
the  ugly  were  gathered  apart,  they  must  be 
uncomely  all  together,  which  were  the 
same  as  not  at  all,  for  there  can  be  no 
ugliness  without  distinction;  and  this  I 
think  were  as  true  of  moral  ugliness  as  of 
physical.  Or,  if  the  angry  were  walled  in, 
the  like  were  true;  for  if  one  were  no  more 
contentious  than  another,  it  were  the  same 
as  all  being  at  quiet.  In  like  way,  if  these 
pecking  fault-finders  were  shut  off  on  a 
bald  rock  in  the  sea,  as  they  would  have 
only  one  kind  of  tongue  between  them,  to 
wit,  the  nagging  tongue,  they  might  learn 
to  make  no  victims  where  all  must  be 
victims,  and  so  get  the  habit  of  peace  in 
their  tongues,  and  come  out  cured.  But 
I  should  advise  to  receive  them  again  by 
small  boat  loads. 

In  soberness,  naggers  are  to  be  resisted 
and  put  out  of  mind;  and  if  one  take  the 
quickest  way  to  put  them  out  of  mind, 
which  is  to  put  them  out  of  sight,  who  is 
to  be  blamed?  A  prodder,  and  grumbler, 
and  scolder,  is  the  exact  opposite  of  a 
warner;  for  they  come  after  the  event, 
when  only  they  can  give  pain;  but  good 
warners  before  the  event,  when  their 
words  do  service.  Therefore  you  will  not 
188 


Fault-Finding. 

find  one  who  warns  and  one  who  nags  in 
the  same  person;  and  one  is  useful  and 
the  other  a  torment. 

O !  friend  Filemar,  well  remember  I, 
and  often  have  I  bewailed  for  thee  what 
thou  didst  reveal  to  me,  unwittingly,  as 
if  a  curtain  were  lifted  an  instant  by  an 
escaped  gust  of  thy  emotion  (I  wonder 
whether  my  Dozen  will  permit  me  this 
recollection,  to  set  it  down  here,  for  she 
loved  Filemar  well  and  he  was  often  at 
our  humble  hearth,  a  gentle  presence),  well 
remember  I,  O  my  friend,  when  thou  wast 
helping  us,  as  thy  ready  hand  was  wont,  in 
putting  up  some  book-shelves  and  decking 
them  with  draperies,  thy  unwonted  re- 
mark— thy  first  and  last — by  which  a  fervid 
pain  escaped,  as  a  fiery  trickle  from  a  cu- 
pola if  the  luting  of  clay  be  broken  a 
little.  "Ah!  that  is  well  done,"  said  I, 
" and  the  hangings  robe  the  books  fitly." 
"  Yes,"  saidst  thou,  "but  my  wife  will  not 
like  it."  "Why  not?"  said  Marian, 
open-eyed.  "  Because  she  did  not  or- 
iginate it,"  saidst  thou.  Then  fell  a  si- 
lence, for  very  shame  and  tenderness.  It 
was  not  easy  to  talk  more.  There  was  a 
fog  in  the  air,  and  we  became  indistinct  to 
each  other.  Our  guest  left  us  soon, — Ah! 
Filemar,  my  friend!  And  not  long  after 
he  departed  this  earth  also.  Some  said, 
189 


Fault-Finding. 

under  breath,  that  she  who  never  was 
satisfied  with  aught  which  she  brought  not 
to  pass  herself,  should  be  content  with 
that;  they  said  she  killed  him  with  slow 
poison,  decoctions  of  herself  in  small  doses 
at  every  eating  and  drinking.  I  know  not. 
But  with  us  thou  livest  in  thy  manfulness, 
Filemar,  my  friend. 

One  principle  is  sure,  namely,  that  there 
should  be  no  fault-finding  if  there  be  no 
season  of  praising  therewith.  It  may  be 
allowed  to  censure  a  failure,  with  pre- 
caution and  good  intent  (and  still  more  a 
habit  of  failing,  for  it  is  a  good  rule  to  pass 
over  single  mishaps  and  censure  only  what 
grows  habitual),  if  also  duly  we  praise  a 
success.  Otherwise,  fault-finding  is  wan- 
ton unkindness  and  brutish  grumbling. 
Praise  is  the  salt  that  seasons  censure; 
and  without  it,  rebuke  has  a  savor  which 
no  one  can  stomach. 

One   day   there   came   to  our  table  our 

friend  D ,  a  wife  at  the  nether  verge 

of  youth,  and  strangely  unsmiling,  I  had 
remarked.  After  that  tea-time  (it  was  a 
chance  coming  and  then  a  staying  with  per- 
suasion to  our  evening  meal)  I  understood 
the  unlifting  gray  of  the  face.  It  was  a 
dainty  spread  of  the  table  thou  hadst  made, 
my  Sister;  and  never  better,  thou  chef  of 
simple-lovely  cooking,  were  those  delicate 
190 


Fault-Pi  ndtag. 


tea-biscuit  which  thou  knowest  I  much 
affect.  Ha!  how  often  hast  thou  taunted 
me  with  'revealing  to  thee  too  plainly  the 
means  to  keep  me  in  good  nature!  I 
have  retorted,  getting  the  better  of  thee 
easily,  with  some  high-flown  fancy,  such 
as  that  it  is  no  wonder  I  am  mollified  by 
a  dainty  viand  which  thou  hast  mixed 
with  thy  dropping  smiles.  Dost  remember 
my  finding  thee  in  the  kitchen,  before  one 
of  thy  favorings  of  me  with  this  particular 
fine  delicacy,  smiling  broadly  to  thyself? 
I  know  well  thou  wast  foretasting  my 
praise,  as  I  returned  to  our  study  with  a 
lively  foresmack  of  thy  biscuit. 

That  same  evening  at  table,  the  evening 
of  our  friend  D 's  presence,  I  com- 
mended thy  dainty  handiwork.  I  per- 
ceived the  gray  of  our  friend's  face  deepen; 
and  she  said,  "Ah!  my  husband  never 
does  that;  if  things  be  good,  he  is  silent, 
but  always  mentions  the  fault  if  aught 
have  gone  ill." 

Verily  what  a  creature  to  cater  for.  His 
mouth  is  no  better  than  a  mill,  which  has 
no  grace  to  make  music  when  it  has  grist, 
but  sets  up  a  great  clatter  when  it  has 
none.  I  say  without  fear  that  there  is  no 
worse  kind  of  a  creature  for  human  society 
than*  one  who  snaps  like  a  wolf  at  a  bad 
point,  a  weakness,  a  fault;  but  never  goes 
191 


Fault-Finding. 

•grazing,  like  a  lamb  in  warm  weather,  in 
pastures  of  good  qualities,  though  these 
be  wide  and  green.  We  are  good,  bad, 
poor,  rich,  noble,  ignoble,  faithful,  un- 
faithful, loving,  hating,  failures  and  also 
great  achievements,  darkness  and  light; 
all  these,  I  say,  we  are  together,  and 
every  one  of  us  is  all  these  qualities,  each 
with  different  measures  of  them.  But 
your  true  nagger  sees  only  the  one  kind, 
the  dark,  and  roams  in  the  dark  with 
nocturnal  animals. 

Whether  it  be  better  to  have  much 
fault-finding  and  therewith  much  praising, 
or  little  blaming  but  also  small  commend- 
ing, I  know  not.  But  the  good  and 
profitable  way  is  to  praise  much,  with  a 
kind  of  flush  and  current,  but  do  little 
fault-finding,  and  that  slowly,  with  con- 
science. 


192 


Helping. 


XX. 

It  is  a  saying  of  Sidney  Smith  that  there 
be  Samaritans  enough,  omitting  the  oil  and 
twopence.  Doing  and  giving  are  the  tests 
and  proofs  of  feeling  —  which  is  so  plain 
and  simple  a  principle,  and  so  sweet  a 
thing  withal,  that  like  a  homely,  sweet 
melody,  it  needs  but  to  be  said,  without 
enforcement  or  ornaments.  Yet  if  Sidney 
Smith's  saying  be  true,  it  is  well  that  the 
simple  melody  of  giving  be  sung  often,  till 
its  sweetness  be  at  home  in  all  ears. 

After  encouragement  comes  kindness  to 
the  point  of  helping.  To  give  help  is 
kindness  which  is  like  an  inn,  full  of  food, 
fruits  and  strength.  If  one  end  with  en- 
couragement, like  a  Samaritan  without  oil 
and  twopence,  he  may  do  much  in  pointing 
the  way  to  the  hospice;  but  he  will  miss 
more  if  he  give  not  a  push  to  the  gate 
and  help  in  unto  the  food  and  shelter  his 
neighbor  who  has  need  of  them. 

Timely  help  is  great  power,  and  there- 
fore large  kindness.  A  task  may  be  too 
great  for  the  strength  however  encouraged; 
193 


Helping. 

and  a  man  may  carry  well  a  load,  once  up, 
which  he  cannot  toss  to  his  shoulders.  If 
then  we  do  more  than  cry  "  Heave  ho!" 
if  to  the  weight  we  put  our  own  hands  and 
give  a  lift,  it  is  past  all  seeing  what  a  great 
effect  we  may  do,  what  losses  forestall  by 
our  seasonable  help,  what  success  begin, 
what  riches,  honor  or  content  set  running. 

I  need  not  enforce  this  to  my  reader 
farther,  especially  as  in  this  little  book  be- 
fore I  have  said  what  seems  needful  of 
deeds  as  the  proof  of  feeling,  and  kind 
deeds  therefore  as  the  test  and  exhibition 
of  kindness  at  heart:  also  of  the  two 
divisions  of  kindness,  the  negative,  namely, 
which  consists  in  giving  no  pain,  and  the 
positive,  which  is  direct  effort  to  give  joy. 
The  same  distinction  applies  to  helping 
our  neighbor.  Not  to  hinder  any  one  is 
negative  kindness;  and  I  would  not  call  it 
little,  or  nothing.  Indeed  sometimes  it  is 
much  virtue  simply  to  keep  out  of  another's 
way.  But  to  help  is  positive  kindness, 
and  far  exceeds  the  negative,  as  a  bright 
and  glowing  light  is  different  from  non- 
darkness. 

Every  man  has  three  things  which  he 
may  give  for  help  of  others,  and  there  is 
no  man  but  has  two  of  them  in  some  quan- 
tity if  he  will  but  measure  and  use  them 
well;  these  three  are:  Exertion,  Time, 
194 


Helping. 

Money.  Exertion  and  Time  are  the  Samar- 
itan oil  which  every  one  possesses.  It  is 
a  question  only  how  much  of  them  he 
will  bestow  on  his  neighbor's  need.  To 
undergo  exertion  and  labor,  to  take  trouble, 
to  spend  time,  are  great  positive  kindnesses, 
which  many  give,  and  therefore  there  is 
much  good  help  in  the  world;  but  many 
also  who  negatively  are  amiable,  and  fain 
would  see  others  prosper,  have  not  the 
positive  will  or  enough  love  to  bestir  them- 
selves, break  their  ease,  take  trouble,  give 
time;  and  therefore  there  is  not  enough 
help  in  the  world. 

Of  money,  the  Samaritan  twopence,  it 
is  true  that  many  have  not  much;  but  true 
it  is  also  that  they  who  have  least  of  it 
give  the  most,  and  true  that  many  who, 
having  very  little,  give  nothing,  might 
slice  a  small  bit  for  another  from  their 
small  loaf  and  be  the  more  fed  thereby  in 
soul  and  not  too  much  less  in  body.  They 
are  kind 

1 '  Who,  be  their  having  more  or  less,  so  have 
That  less  is  more  than  need,  and  more  is  less 
Than  the  great  heart's  good  will." 

The    beautiful   pattern    of    this    devout 
manner  of  giving,    shining    unto  all    eyes 
forever,  is  the  poor  widow  whom  the  Mas- 
ter took  loving  note  of    and    commended, 
195 


Helping. 

saying  that  by  her  little  she  cast  in  riches. 
And  good  is  the  saying  of  commentators 
that  the  two  mites  are  what  give  such  savor 
to  the  poor  woman's  devotion,  for  she 
might  have  kept  one;  but  it  was  her  heart 
to  give  all  that  she  could.  Therefore  was 
her  gift  so  acceptable.  The  same  wisdom 
and  reverence  were  in  the  Rabbinical  air 
around  Jesus.  The  sacrifice  of  the  poor, 
said  the  Rabbins,  is  the  most  acceptable  in 
heaven;  for  they  give  double, — first,  what 
offering  they  bring,  secondly  their  own  flesh. 
This  they  enforced  with  legends.  "  Once, " 
said  they,  "came  a  woman  bringing  an 
offering  of  a  mere  handful  of  flour; 
and  the  chief  priest  spurned  her,  saying, 
"That  is  a  wretched  nothing  even  for 
eating;  how  contemptible  then  for  an 
.offering!"  But  that  same  night  he  was 
warned  in  a  dream,  and  a  Voice  from 
heaven  said  to  him,  "Spurn  her  not,  for 
her  offering  is  the  same  as  giving  herself, 
her  very  life." 

There  is  no  real  giving  unless  there  be 
sacrifice  therewith.  Can  one  in  truth  be- 
stow anything  unless  he  set  apart  for 
another  what  well  and  sensibly  he  might 
apply  to  his  own  comfort?  Doth  he  give 
fuel  and  paint  rooms  fire-ruddy  who  lets 
the  poor  pick  up  his  chips  which  he  will 
not  stoop  his  own  back  to?  It  is  to  be 
196 


Helping. 

questioned  whether  any  but  the  poor  can 
know  the  savor  and  sweetness  of  giving, 
yea,  or  of  getting.  "  There  is  a  spiritual 
pleasure  in  patching  a  garment,"  said  to 
me  a  good  woman,  "  which  no  one  can  have 
who  can  buy  a  new  one  for  the  opening  of 
hi$  purse."  The  lovely  and  beloved  Mary 
Waterhouse,  wife  of  William  Ware,  told 
me  merrily  of  a  bit  of  quaint  old-fashioned 
furniture,  an  escritoire,  which  they  looked 
at  with  great  desire,  exposed  at  the  door 
of  the  shop  of  a  dealer  in  such  fine  articles; 
but  the  cost  was  too  much  for  them.  Yet 
the  temptation  continued,  as  they  passed 
the  place  daily  in  their  walks,  and  with  the 
desire  they  counted  their  coin,  and  at  last, 
having  collected  enough  and  silenced  some 
scruples  whether  it  were  not  a  worldly  in- 
dulgence to  which  their  conditions  had  no 
title,  they  brought  home  the  coveted  bit  of 
elegance;  and  great  was  their  admiration 
and  comfort  in  it  and  their  satisfaction 
with  each  other  in  the  obtaining  of  it;  and 
no  king  was  ever  prouder  of  a  conquered 
province,  said  she.  These  are  the  joys  of 
the  not  rich;  and  likewise  the  full  sweet- 
ness of  giving,  is  reserved  for  them,  unless 
the  rich  will  do  in  bestowing  what  the  poor 
must,  to  wit,  bestow  so  much  that  they 
pinch  themselves  somewhere.  But  it  is 
seldom  they  will  do  that;  yea,  and  the 
197 


Helping. 

easy  souls  can  not  conceive  it  is  reason  that 
they  should.  "  I  will  give  all  I  can 
afford,"  say  they;  which  means,  "until  I 
begin  to  be  abridged  in  some  comfort,"  — 
or  mayhap  even  in  some  pleasure,  so 
wholly  do  they  imagine  that  what  they 
have  in  their  hands  is  their  own. 

Here  comes  to  me  a  memory  of  that 
most  sweet  friend  of  my  life  and  treasure 
of  my  labors,  my  Sister.  It  was  during 
that  dark  time  when  we  were  parted,  too 
poor  to  make  together  the  home  that  now 
she  blesses 

"  With  the  sunlight,  moonlight,  starlight; 
With  the  fire-light" 

of  her  love.  I  had  need  of  some  money 
in  my  distant  place;  for  I  was  earning  even 
less  than  she  with  her  skillful  swift  hands 
and  her  nine  hours'  hard  labor  every  day. 
Therefore  she  pinched  herself  in  many 
ways  to  save  the  wherewith  to  send  me 
help,  and  to  abate  the  debts  which 
weighed  on  me.  The  winter  was  cold  and 
her  walk  to  her  labor  long,  in  the  biting 
mornings;  but  she  denied  herself  the  cheap 
muff  which  she  needed,  and  tucked  her 
hands  up  her  sleeves  for  warmth,  for  my 
sake,  which  she  called  "wrapping  them  up 
in  love,"  when  I  drew  the  truth  from  her 
long  afterward;  "and  thus,  thou  see'st  I 
198 


Helping:. 

made  a  muff  of  thee,"  said  she,  with  a 
very  arch  look  and  just  a  perceptible  cir- 
cumflex on  "muff"  giving  it  a  very  objec- 
tionable savor.  But  to  my  doubtful  look 
she  answered  with  a  kiss  and  ran  away. 
Ah !  my  Dozen,  what  a  light  shines  from 
thee  around  me!  "After  the  day  cometh 
the  darkness,  but  the  light  of  wisdom 
never  goeth  out;"  and  love  is  the  great 
wisdom.  And  joy  it  is  to  be  sure,  my 
sweet  Dozen,  that,  lovely  as  thou  art,  there 
be  other  sisters  that  do  likewise,  and 
other  brothers  better  than  I,  though  not 
more  blest,  —  many  of  both.  Else  would 
the  heavens  fall.  The  world  is  made  glad 
by  sacrifice.  There  is  no  real  giving  but 
is  sacrificial,  a  kind  of  sacrament,  a  devo- 
tion, by  the  dedication  unto  another  of 
what  we  prize  and  could  turn  to  account 
for  ourselves  and  fain  would  keep  fondly 
but  that  still  more  we  have  a  heart  to  give 
it.  But  to  give  what  for  ourselves  we 
need  not  and  want  not  is  naught.  "  How 
can  that  leave  a  trace  which  has  left 
no  void?"  He  who  gives  only  a  bit  of 
his  overflow  and  touches  himself  in  no 
way  in  the  giving,  may  see  himself  in 
Bacon's  remark  of  one  who  has  hoarded 
everything  his  life  long  and  now  bequeaths 
it,  that  he  is  "rather  liberal  of  another  man's 
than  of  his  own."  For  does  a  man  own 
199 


Helping. 

aught  before  God  which  he  can  put  to  no 
comely  use  for  himself?  Rather  then  is  he 
a  steward  or  porter  of  it  unto  some  one, 
and  God  is  the  giver;  but  if  the  man  give 
what  he  might  apply  to  himself  in  some 
fair  good  way,  and  forego  something  by 
reason  of  what  he  invests  another  with, 
then  he  adds  himself  piously  to  God  and 
becomes  a  giver  with  him. 

Now,  if  help  be  loving  and  devout, 
which  is  to  say,  with  sacrifice  at  need, 
ihen  it  is  to  be  done  wisely,  which  is 
matter  for  consideration  in  many  points; 
but  always  one  great  point  in  giving 
help  with  wisdom  is  timeliness.  Kind- 
ness often  moves  far  and  finely  in  an- 
other's affairs  by  the  saving  of  time  to 
him.  It  may  be  a  matter  of  vast  moment 
whether  some  task  be  done  in  a  day  or 
in  a  week;  yes,  the  interests  of  years,  the 
turning  point  of  a  life,  may  lie  in  that 
issue.  If  at  such  a  point  we  "lend  a 
hand "  we  can  not  dream  how  far  the 
effects  may  travel.  Nay,  we  may  do  kind- 
ness, if  we  be  alert  in  it,  ignorant  that  we 
are  serving  at  a  crisis.  Add  to  this  all  the 
saving  of  time  a  little  well-imparted  knowl- 
edge, if  this  be  the  help  or  a  portion  of  it, 
may  grow  to,  spreading  on  many  sides  for 
many  years,  and  who  can  count  the  effects 
of  a  little  pains  kindly  taken,  or  imagine 
200 


Helping. 

the  harmonies  of  it,  so  timely  it  drops  into 
the  world's  business  and  so  long  goes  on 
singing  its  part! 

Giving  help  being  so  very  great  a  part 
of  kindness,  it  follows  that  whatever  gives 
power  .and  means  of  helping  is  to  be 
looked  to  by  a  kind  spirit.  Economy  and 
care  are  the  sources  of  the  means  of  help- 
ing. To  be  lavish  and  heedless  in  the  use 
of  money  or  material  is  great  unkindness; 
in  other  ways,  too,  it  is  offence  against 
nature,  but  especially  it  is  great  unkind- 
ness.  He  who  will  not  make  all  things 
go  as  far  as  they  can,  by  care  and  economy, 
cuts  off  another's  part  in  what  he  has.  A. 
penny  saved  is  more  than  a  penny  earned, 
for  certainly  if  I  dropped  it  carelessly  by 
the  way  in  my  own  use,  then  to  save  and 
not  drop  it  is  a  penny  of  power  in  me  for 
my  neighbor's  good.  It  was  a  wise  saying 
of  a  Chinese  Emperor  that  if  but  one 
woman  were  idle  in  the  Empire,  some  one 
suffered  with  hunger  in  some  province  of 
the  dominion. 

Especially  it  is  an  easy  and  plain  kind- 
ness to  be  economical  and  careful  with  our 
overflows  of  useful  things.  This  will 
have  great  effect  on  the  interests  and- priv- 
ileges of  others.  For  in  every  house  how 
many  things  collect  which  we  use  not;  or 
using  them  once,  we  are  done  with  them- 
201 


Helping. 

A  careless  spirit  will  let  them  lie  in  heaps 
in  garrets  or  barns;  but  conscientious 
kindness  scatters  them  where  they  may  be 
useful.  Kindness  is  a  great  foe  of  waste, 
.for  it  seems  cruel  to  destroy  or  abuse 
things  which  still  are  full  of  service  for 
others,  albeit  spent  for  us.  Kindness, 
therefore,  will  not  suffer  the  pang  of  seeing 
rubbish  heaps  where  lie  decaying  many 
things  which  others  need.  I  have  known 
persons  very  conscientious  in  this  matter, 
keeping  and  selecting  everything  carefully 
to  bestow  it  where  it  may  continue  its  serv- 
ice. Kind  and  thoughtful  minds  save 
-disused  reading  matter,  books,  pamphlets, 
papers,  and  send  them  to  cheerless  places 
like  prisons  and  sick  chambers,  or  to 
dwellers  in  some  remote  hamlet  where 
precious  products  of  art  come  but  rarely 
and  scantily,  falling  like  a  few  feathers 
from  birds  of  passage.  Of  Lucretia  Mott 
her  grandchildren  say,  "It  was  contrary 
to  her  system  of  household  economy  to 
allow  any  one  to  use  or  tear  up  newspapers 
indiscriminately.  She  assorted  them  care- 
fully in  several  piles;  and  woe  be  to  the 
unfortunate  who  took  a  paper  from  the 
wrong  pile!  Only  the  dailies  were  taken 
for  kindlings,  and  not  even  they  until  they 
had  attained  a  venerable  age.  The 
weeklies  and  monthlies  were  given  away, 

202 


Helping. 

some  regularly  to  friends  who  could  not 
afford  to  subscribe  for  them,  while  others 
were  made  into  packages  for  distribution 
at  country  meetings."  She  saved  the 
inside  of  the  envelopes  that  came  by 
mail,  on  which  to  write  memoranda,  notes 
and  comments  and  quotations  from  fav- 
orite books;  she  used  "ravelings  in  sew- 
ing carpet  rags,  and  in  many  kinds  of 
mending  where  strength  was  not  required." 
Some  persons  liked  not  these  habits  and 
even  were  harsh  and  ridiculing  in  regard 
to  them,  and  of  her  own  family  some 
wished  she  would  be  more  comfortable  to 
herself  when  economy  so  sharp  was  not 
needful  and  she  was  both  aged  and 
famous.  But  it  was  an  economy  which 
had  a  double  grace, — it  was  religion,  a 
reverence  for  things,  and  it  was  kindness; 
and,  says  a  grandchild,  "it  is  not  for 
one  who  profited  by  her  generosity  to 
criticise  as  excessive  the  economy  that 
made  such  generosity  possible."  Her 
husband  was  like  her  in  these  pre- 
arrangements  for  giving,  and  what 
they  bestowed  "was  a  large  portion  of 
what  was  never  more  than  a  moderate  in- 
come. It  was  not  given  to  ordinary  chari- 
ties, as  a  rule,  but  was  quietly  passed 
over,  five  dollars  here,  ten  there,  or  fifty 
perhaps,  to  help  some  poor  overworked 
203 


Helping. 

seamstress  to  a  holiday,  to  alleviate  a  case 
of  temporary  distress,  or  to  furnish  an  un- 
expected treat  to  some  self-denying 
drudge."  A  dainty  instance  of  her  econo- 
my is  told;  a  member  of  the  household, 
going  into  her  room  one  morning,  found 
her  diligently  mending  a  rip  in  her  pillow. 
She  glanced  up  and  said,  "Will  thee 
please  open  that  bureau  drawer  for  me? 
Right  in  front  in  the  corner  thee  will  find 
a  feather  that  I  want."  The  feather  was 
given  her;  she  tucked  it  into  the  pillow 
and  sewed  up  the  hole.  At  this  same 
time  several  of  the  family,  children,  grand- 
children, greatgrandchildren,  were  pre- 
paring for  a  journey.  She  called  them  to 
her  severally  in  turn  during  one  day  and 
gave  each  one  "  a  sum  of  money  sufficient 
to  cover  the  whole  expense  of  the  journey." 
Ah!  well  remember  I  one  spirit  like  to 
this  Quaker  dame.  But  why  say  I  "re- 
member." Is  she  not  with  me  still? 
Comes  not  a  light  from  where  she  is,  and 
that  light  still  on  earth?  Belike  I  say  "re- 
member "  because  the  preciousness  of  my 
many  memories  gather  all  in  one,  by  reason 
of  a  certain  unity  and  entire  coherence  in 
her  character,  so  that  always  my  past  days 
with  her  mingle  with  the  present.  -  I  retain 
still  with  me  the  first  time  I  saw  St. 
Matilda  (this  is  the  name  Theodorus  gave 
204 


Helping. 

her,  and  her  friends  accepted  at  once  the 
rechristening  —  it  was  so  suitable),  thirty 
and  odd  years  ago,  when  she  was  not  so 
old  as  I  am  now,  and  I  was  a  college  lad. 
At  an  evening  party  at  her  sister's  house 
she  passed  by,  a  slight,  delicate  woman, 
with  iron-gray  locks  which  allowed  some 
curls  at  the  temples,  deep  eyes  like  wells  of 
insight,  and  a  brow,  nose  and  chin  like 
Crawford's  Beethoven  by  some  indefinable 
touches  made  feminine.  From  that  hour 
she  has  been  a  singular  perfectness  to  me, 
like  some  fairness  existing  in  the  eye-sight 
itself;  for  I  have  looked  at  all  the  world 
very  much  through  her.  She  is  like  a 
Quaker,  with  an  acceptable  unlikeness.  I 
mean  she  has  the  sweetness,  serenity, 
spiritual  loveliness,  stillness,  government, 
with  no  touch  of  the  mere  precision  and 
other  limitations.  She  delights  in  music, 
and  I  knew  just  in  what  very  chair  to  find 
her  quaint  sweet  company  for  many  years 
at  every  Symphony  and  Oratorio.  Her 
house  was  used  and  open  all  the  time,  to  a 
point  of  wonderment  to  common  mortals. 
Rich  and  poor,  learned  and  ignorant  alike 
were  at  her  table.  To  know  her  and  fre- 
quent her  house  was  to  have  a  near  sight 
of  life  as  impartial  as  the  far  and  myster- 
ious sight  of  it  to  be  gotten  in  walking  the 
streets.  Well  recall  I  one  of  her  weekly 
205 


Helping. 

guests  on  a  Monday,  Miss  C ,  a  quaint, 

queer,  lone  ancient  maid,  knotted  up  in 
some  places  with  rheumatism,  but  tall  and 
very  stiffly  erect,  with  gray  hair  back  of  a 
big  forehead  and  done  up  in  a  high  knot 
with  a  large  comb  behind.  She  ate  with 
relish  and  smiled  not  and  said  little.  I  can 
recall  but  one  observation  she  was  pleased 
to  make,  repeated  with  emphasis,  to  wit, 
that  she  ate  the  fat  of  meat  because  it  kept 
her  warm.  It  was  St..  Matilda's  loving  good 
pleasure  to  have  the  antique  dame  pass  all 
day  of  every  Monday  with  her,  that  the  lone 
rheumaticky  body  might  have  golden  loop- 
holes at  set  intervals  along  her  dusky  way; 
and  no  doubt  she  eased  the  time  between 
the  chinks  of  light  by  anticipating  the 
next  one  —  a  fine  and  perpetuating  charity, 
for  anticipation  hath  a  gusto  of  its  own 
and  is  much  more  than  the  ghost  of  a 
feast. 

Throngs  of  persons  came  continually  to 
St.  Matilda  for  advice,  sympathy,  help  of 
every  kind,  and  she  held  levee  daily  like  a 
queen  or  great  officer,  but  one  who  kept  no 
state  nor  antechamber  and  treated  the  poor 
and  forlorn  like  fellow-queens.  She  made 
it  the  mission  of  many  of  her  best  years 
to  take  "unfortunate  babies"  (so  called 
she  them  that  had  no  name)  and  keep 
them  in  small  private  places,  little  asy- 
206 


Helping. 

lums,  of  her  own,  till  she  could  find  homes- 
for  them;  and  for  many  hundreds  of  in- 
fants did  she  provide  thus,  yea,  for  hun- 
dreds more  than  a  thousand. 

Never  was  there  a  house  more  hung 
with  light  "spread  out  like  a  curtain,"  nor 
more  adorned,  yet  never  one  whose  orna- 
ment and  beauty  so  lay  in  the  persons,  not 
in  the  things. 

Her  generosity  was  notable,  lavish  in- 
deed, but  secret.  Slyly  or  swiftly  would 
she  put  money,  large  sums  too,  into  a 
hand  wherein  she  divined  some  need;  and 
she  is  one  who  understands  the  need  of 
food  before  starvation  has  set  in.  She 
could  feel  by  conception — a  rare  and  per- 
haps a  saintly,  power;  I  mean,  that  by  a 
loving  imagination  and  wide  spirit  she  so 
could  apply  her  own  experience  as  to  con- 
ceive what  she  had  not  experienced  and 
understand  the  things  of  others  though 
not  touching  herself.  She  had  a  power 
which  she  called  "Sensing."  She  could 
"sense"  from  afar,  and  it  was  not  often 
that  I  could  surprise  her.  She  knew  be- 
fore I  came  or  spoke.  When  she  came  at 
my  ring  at  the  door,  she  has  said,  "  I  have 
been  expecting  you;  I  have  felt  you  in  the 
air  all  day."  If  I  wrote  to  her  from  a  dis- 
tance, though  I  had  been  silent  a  long 
time,  she  would  answer,  "I  have  been  so 
207 


Helping. 

certain  that  what  you  tell  me  had  happened 
to  you  or  was  about  to  happen  that  I  have 
made  ready  for  it."  Such,  though  but  in 
little,  is  Saint  Matilda.  To  know  her  is 
to  dwell  below  an  upland  whence  a  stream 
falls,  and  the  bright  waters  provoke  thirst, 
and  to  drink  thereof  is  reverence  and 
knowledge  of  loving-kindness. 


208 


Advising. 


XXI. 

To  advise  is  a  power  possessed  by  kind- 
ness, and  without  kindness  it  is  not  pos- 
sible. This  is  important,  because  advice 
is  the  access  of  the  old  to  the  young;  and 
because  no  one  can  stand  alone. 

Trust  is  necessary  to  any  power  of  ad- 
vice with  us;  for  no  fruit  can  grow  unless 
the  advice  come  from  a  trusted  person  and 
be  given  purely,  which  means  with  no  taint 
in  it  either  of  vanity  or  of  self-interest. 
But  thus  to  think  of  another  with  a  mind 
as  single-eyed  as  for  a  need  of  one's  own, 
is  perfect  and  pure  kindness.  Hence  ad- 
vice is  a  force  of  kindness.  In  a  small 
wise  essay  on  Advice,  Sir  Arthur  Helps 
says,  "  You  should  not  look  about  for  the 
wisest  thing  which  can  be  said,  but 
for  that  which  your  friend  has  the  heart 
to  undertake  and  the  ability  to  accom- 
plish. You  must  sometimes  feel  with 
him,  before  you  can  possibly  think  for 
him.  There  is  more  need  of  keeping  this 
in  mind,  the  greater  you  know  the  differ- 
ence to  be  between  your  friend's  nature 
209 


Advising:. 

and  your  own.  Your  advice  should  not  de- 
generate into  comparisons  between  what 
would  have  been  your  conduct,  and  what 
was  your  friend's.  You  should  be  able  to 
take  up  the  matter  at  the  point  at  which  it 
is  brought  to  you."  All  this  is  simple  and 
truthful  kindness,  a  "pure  and  perfect 
sincerity  "  of  kindness,  which  is  the  con- 
dition of  advisory  worth.  Besides,  advice 
not  always  is  welcome  in  itself.  "In 
general,"  says  Sir  Arthur  Helps,  "it  is 
with  advice  as  with  taxation;  we  can  en- 
dure very  little  of  either,  if  they  come  to 
us  in  the  direct  way.  They  must  hot 
thrust  themselves  upon  us.  We  do  not 
understand  their  knocking  at  our  doors." 
Now  must  I  say  I  feel  not  like  the 
essayist  in  this  passage  as  regards  tax- 
ation. For  when  I  stroll  the  fields  of 
a  fair  country  and  behold  what  men  have 
done  over  forest  and  plain  and  hill  and  sea 
by  leaguing  themselves,  or  when  I  walk 
the  streets  of  a  rich  city  and  see  the  same 
in  architecture  and  many  wondrous  and 
beautiful  arts,  and  feel  a  vast  protection 
around  me  also,  and  whereas  I  am  but  one 
man  and  insignificant,  yet  I  know  that  I 
am  under  care  of  all  men  and  my  claims 
are  not  counted  insignificant,  then  I  desire 
to  pay  my  portion  of  the  cost  of  this  ex- 
cellence and  to  do  all  my  part  in  the  gen- 
210 


Advising. 

eral  order,  justice  and  architecture,  and 
never  yet  I  paid  my  taxes  but  willingly 
and  feeling  the  better  for  it. 

And  I  must  say  the  like  regarding  ad- 
vice too,  in  a  measure.  For  one  who  is 
unwilling  to  be  helped  will  miss  very  much 
good,  and  whoso  thinks  he  can  stand  all 
alone  will  be  very  like  to  shore  himself  up 
so  hard  on  one  side  that  he  will  fall  in 
some  other  way,  if  no  worse  mischance  be- 
fall him. 

Yet  also  there  are  things  which  we  need 
much,  which  yet  must  come  delicately, 
like  love,  or  censure,  or  religion.  And 
advice  is  another  such  thing.  To  have  it 
thrust  on  us  boldly  is  very  unwelcome  and 
even  mayhap  sore  to  a  not  unwholesome 
pride,  as  an  intrusion;  and  belike  the 
reason  is  that  advice  is  so  good  a  thing 
and  so  excellent  a  power  as  to  be  worthy 
of  delicate  approach  and  preparation,  and 
also  that  one  who  feels  not  this  delicacy  of 
it,  and  has  no  sense  of  the  personal  realm, 
but  plunges  at  us  boldly  with  his  counsel, 
with  never  a  "  by  your  leave  "  or  a  respect, 
is  like  to  be  so  presumptuous  and  over- 
weening that  he  is  unfit  to  advise  and  can 
have  no  power  in  it;  or  even  if  he  have 
some  strong  sense  (which,  however,  is 
like  to  be  twisted  by  his  vanity  and  self- 
importance),  surely  has  no  soft  and  gentle 
211 


Advising. 

skill.  Advice,  therefore,  must  come  for- 
ward with  a  most  kind  face,  which  is  to 
say  a  countenance  wholly  filled  with  re- 
spect and  love  unto  us,  unshadowed  with 
pride  of  doing  a  fine  thing  in  advising  us, 
and  lighted  with  a  reverent  mindfulness  of 
the  personal  realm.  This  is  simple  and 
pure  kindness,  which  is  the  wedding  gar- 
ment of  advice;  and  advice  shall  not  enter 
our  doors  without  it. 

Touching  the  potency  and  value  of 
acceptable  advising  which  I  have  men- 
tioned, to  wit,  that  it  is  the  access  of  the 
old  to  the  young,  it  is  a  precious  power. 
By  this  means  experience  may  be  saved, 
and  the  tough  lessons  of  life  be  cobbled 
into  sandals  for  young  feet  thronging  the 
same  way,  if  only  the  youth  can  be  led  to 
put  on  the  sandals.  But  this  "if"  —  ah! 
it  bars  the  way  like  a  little  sand  heap  be- 
fore a  wheel —  a  small  matter,  but  quickly 
it  stops  the  traveling.  The  world  would 
grow  wise  very  fast  if  only  the  experience 
of  one  generation  were  taken  at  cost  and 
set  to  purpose  by  the  next.  But  "such  a 
hare  is  madness,  the  youth,  to  skip  o'er 
the  meshes  of  good  counsel,  the  cripple," 
that  a  youth  of  spirit  who  will  listen  to 
advice  is  a  "rare  bird"  indeed,  and  they 
who  have  no  spirit  fail  to  listen  by  dull- 
ness or  belike  by  sheer  obstinacy,  and  many 
212 


Advising. 

others  are  careless,  and  all  youth  is  like  to 
be  conceited;  so  that  one  way  and  another  it 
is  a  hard  matter  for  the  old  to  advise  the 
young.  Well  I  remember  that  in  my 
callow  youth  I  thought  ail  persons  verging 
fifty  years,  or  even  forty,  were  "old  fogies" 
who  had  not  caught  life's  trick,  and  the 
quick  world  had  gone  by  them.  And 
many  a  hard  buffet  had  I,  and  many 
shames  stomached  and  many  woes  suffered, 
before  my  pin-feather  impudence  took 
flight.  And  now  succeeds  another  genera- 
tion, unshod  as  I  was,  to  whom  in  turn  I 
am  a  fogy,  and  all  my  cobbling  with  my 
experience  can  make  no  shoe  which  any  of 
them  will  put  on.  So  hardly  can  the  old 
arrive  at  the  young.  Therefore  if  at  all, 
only  the  purest  kindness  can  do  it,  a  kind- 
ness so  pure  that  it  is  memory,  sympathy, 
humility,  confession,  tenderness  and  em- 
brace, a  turning  about  and  holding  the 
young  to  heart  while  over  their  shoulders 
we  look  back,  with  contrition  for  ourselves 
and  yearning  for  them,  at  our  traveling 
of  the  same  road.  La  Rochefoucault  says: 
"We  give  advice,  but  we  can  not  give  con- 
duct." His  words  are  precise,  "  On  donne 
des  conseilsj  mats  on  n'inspire  point  de  con- 
duite."  After  the  precept,  then  to  move 
the  conduct  is  inspiration,  and  this  is  the 
overflow  of  limpid  love. 
213 


Advising. 

Touching  the  other  reason  of  the  value 
of  advice  which  I  have  mentioned, 
namely,  that  no  man  is  able  to  stand  alone 
in  his  life,  this  also  is  a  great  value  of  it; 
for  as  to  meeting  life's  straits  alone,  two 
things  are  to  be  considered:  first,  as  I  have 
said,  that  no  man  is  able  to  do  it  with 
wisdom,  and,  secondly,  that  if  one  could 
do  it,  he  would  miss  therein  life's  sweetest 
and  most  instructive  joys,  the  unions  of 
the  heart.  Wisdom  and  virtue  are  such 
qualities  that  all  possible  helps  and  re- 
sources are  no  more  than  enough  to  attain 
to  them.  All  muniments  wherewith  we 
can  wall  ourselves  in,  are  needful.  There- 
fore good  advising  is  a  precious  thing. 
And  for  giving  advice  the  quality  of  the 
heart  and  soul  is  the  most  valuable  part  of 
intelligence.  Nay,  I  know  not  what  wit 
and  sharp  parts  are  worth  in  anything  if 
the  heart  be  hard  and  the  soul  greedy;  for 
then  wit  is  like  swift  feet  on  a  wrong  road; 
the  swifter  thereon  the  worse  for  them. 
"  In  seeking  for  a  friend  to  advise  you," 
says  Sir  Arthur  Helps,  in  the  wise  little 
essay  before  quoted,  "look  for  uprightness 
in  him  rather  than  for  ingenuity.  It  fre- 
quently happens  that  all  you  want  is  moral 
strength.  You  can  discern  consequences 
well  enough,  but  can  not  make  up  your 
mind  to  bear  them.  Let  your  Mentor  also 
214 


Advising. 

be  a  person  of  nice  conscience,  for  such  a 
one  is  less  likely  to  fall  into  that  error  to 
which  we  are  all  so  liable,  of  advising  our 
friends  to  act  with  less  forbearance,  and 
less  generosity,  than  we  should  be  inclined 
to  show  ourselves,  if  the  case  were  our 
own." 

Simple  truth  is  the  greatest  kindness  if 
there  be  love  with  it.  "The  highest  com- 
pact we  can  make  with  our  comrade  is, 
Let  there  be  truth  between  us  two  for  ever- 
more," says  Emerson.  But  it  must  be 
truth  with  4ove  and  loving-kindness  — 
which  is  taken  for  granted  in  Emerson's 
remark;  and  this  shows  the  ground-value 
of  love. 


215 


Respectfulness. 


XXII. 

I  know  not  whether  there  be  any  practi- 
cal kindness  so  great  as  respectfulness, 
and  I  am  sure  there  is  none  greater. 
Especially  this  is  a  kindness  which  is  more 
precious  by  so  much  as  the  person  who  re- 
ceives it  is  nobler  to  prize  it; -and  few  in- 
deed, I  happily  think,  but  would  prefer  a 
great  and  manifest  respectfulness  for  them 
and  unto  them,  to  any  other  benefit,  or  all 
others  together,  without  that  grace  of 
honor.  Moreover,  it  is  one  of  the  bases — 
I  know  not  but  I  should  say  the  main  one, 
but  certainly  as  needful  as  any  other,  such 
as  sincerity,  and  the  like — of  all  other 
forms  of  kindness  and  of  the  possibility  of 
them;  for  no  man  will  busy  himself  much 
for  what  he  respects  not,  neither  will  the 
person  who  is  unrespected  be  able  to  re- 
ceive much  good  from  us,  and  not  at  all 
the  best  benefits,  such  as  encouragement, 
knowledge,  counsel,  of  which  I  have  been 
speaking.  And  if  there  be  a  deep  and 
subtle  disrespect  in  us  unto  a  certain  per- 
son, even  though  it  be  curbed  well  or  be 
216 


Respectfulness. 

such  as  breaks  forth  into  appearance  only 
rarely  or  on  delicate  occasions,  still  there 
will  be  a  vague  pain  and  obscure  unhappi- 
ness  caused  in  him,  and  though  he  may 
get  many  benefits  from  us  he  will  not 
receive  the  best  one,  which  is  inspiration, 
lilt  of  heart,  and  fine  spirit  to  live. 

It  is  not  easy  to  describe  how  vast  and 
efficient  a  kindness  respectfulness  is,  when 
it  is  warm,  deep,  at  heart's  center,  ever 
ready  to  break  forth  into  sight  and  action. 
It  is  an  extreme  and  precious  kindness, 
and  confers  a  very  active  joy.  Is  there 
anything  that  so  will  hearten  us  day  by 
day,  suffuse  us  with  such  a  might  of  joy 
around  the  soul,  so  make  us  equal  to  all 
occasions  and  endue  us  with  faith  that  we 
shall  not  try  great  things  in  vain,  as  a  deep 
consideration  and  respect  for  us  overflow- 
ing from  any  one,  especially  if  that  one 
have  a  place  in  our  love?  Moreover,  this 
manner  of  kindness  is  a  very  beautiful 
thing,  and  as  unto  our  favored  ones  it  is 
rooted  in  the  finest  quality  of  love,  so  unto 
the  general  company  and  usual  bevy 
around  us  respectfulness  hath  root  in  a 
large  and  religious  heart  for  men.  A 
gentle  woman  of  the  family  of  Ware, 
friends  and  lovers  of  Orville  Dewey,  told 
me  that  on  inquiry  as  to  the  source  of  a 
certain  respectfulness  emanating  from  him 
217 


Respectfulness. 

and  stirring  like  air  and  light  around  any 
one  who  came  to  him,  she  found  the  grace 
sprang  from  a  deep  reverence  for  the  hu- 
man soul. 

Many  there  be,  I  am  very  sure, — nay,  I 
have  seen  such,  and  a  sad  sight  it  is — who 
fall  short  of  what  they  might  do  in  life,  and 
shrink  into  themselves  or  betake  them- 
selves to  lone  ways,  because  they  have  not 
had  the  heartening  kindness  of  a  warm 
and  sweet  respectfulness  put  forth  unto 
them  and  spread  around  them.  For  it  is 
a  very  hard  thing  to  lift  the  head  much 
above  the  importance  which  the  persons 
near  to  one  assign  him  by  their  manners; 
and  it  is  easy  for  a  modest  spirit  that  never 
is  regarded  much  and  never  shielded  from 
intrusion  or  interruption,  but  every  labor 
and  care  laid  on  him,  and  no  fine  consider- 
ations offered  him,  and  no  advocate  of  his 
dignity  or  due  place  to  be  found  in  any 
bosom — for  such  a  one,  I  say,  it  is  easy  to 
think,  and  it  is  great  odds  but  at  last  he 
will  be  persuaded,  that  he  is  worth  no 
more  than  these  neglects  and  infringements 
express  of  him.  For  there  is  nothing  in 
the  world  worth  so  much  to  a  soul  that 
hath  a  scrap  of  nobility  in  it  as  a  rich  and 
consistent  and  steady  respectfulness  ac- 
corded him.  Even  affection  is  not  so 
precious.  Sometimes,  no  doubt,  he  who 
218 


Respectfulness. 

is  disregarded,  especially  by  the  persons 
nearest  to  him,  has  some  lack  of  weight  in 
himself,  some  inscrutable  deficiency  which 
effects  a  slightness  or  lightness  about  him, 
so  that  he  commands  no  observance;  but 
sometimes  too,  it  is  one  of  the  ill  points, 
and  a  punishment,  of  disregardful,  un- 
respectful  persons,  that  they  pass  by 
"  modest  merit "  to  expend  themselves  on 
flaunting  "  parts;  "  and  they  know  not  how 
ridiculous  and  unlovely  they  appear  to  a 
sound  and  a  kind  eye  that,  by  reason  of 
the  soundness  of  kindness,  comes  nearer 
to  seeing  things  as  they  are.  Moreover, 
even  if  any  one  be  of  slight  make  and  no 
Weight,  it  is  one  of  the  sweetest  and  fairest 
offices  of  kindness  to  do  such  manner  of 
observance  to  him  as  can  shield  him  from 
secret  despair  and  support  him  to  make 
the  most  of  himself. 

I  said  just  now  that  unto  our  favored 
ones,  respectfulness  is  rooted  in  the  finest 
quality  of  love;  which  leads  me  to  a 
thought  that  often  hath  arisen  in  me  to  a 
great  height — namely,  that  between  lovers 
respect  and  the  observance  thereof  should 
rise  into  a  passion.  I  would  define  a 
noble  love,  whether  friend-love  or  that 
friend-love  with  a  somewhat  more  which  is 
marriage-love,  as  a  passion  of  respect 
mingled  with  a  deep  tenderness  of  affection. 
219 


Respectfulness. 

N 

And  the  passion  should  be  in  the  respect;  for 
the  respect  is  a  sky  whence  the  pure  trans- 
port will  rain  into  the  tenderness  also,  that 
it  will  blossom  with  all  manner  of  fervid 
things.  But  if  the  passion  be  not  first  and 
by  origin  in  the  respect,  but  in  some  other 
feeling  (like  the  "passion  to  possess " — the 
bad  name  of  a  worse  thing),  ,in  that 
measure  the  love  is  abased;  and  there  be 
degrees  of  that  abasement  and  of  selfish- 
ness therein  which  have  no  right  to  the 
name  of  love. 

I  would  speak  only  of  beautiful  things 
in  this  book  so  far  as  may  be,  as  I  have 
said  before;  so  here  rather  of  the  beauty  of 
respectfulness  than  of  the  ugliness  of  im- 
pudence. Yet  the  evil  must  be  known 
sometimes,  "because  often  it  is  of  the 
nature  of  a  pit-fall,  which  is  no  more  than 
a  black  hole  if  we  know  well  where  it  is. 
Perhaps  if  I  bring  some  of  the  shadow  of 
impudence  under  the  light  of  respectful- 
ness, the  bad  shadow  may  appear  more 
truly  as  its  nature  is. 

And  bad  it  is,  gross,  base.  Sometimes 
I  have  thought  that  impudence  is  the 
greatest  offense  one  can  do  another.  For 
other  wrongs  may  be  escaped  or  amended 
or  overlooked  or  forgotten,  because  they 
are  like  robberies.  But  impudence  is  like 
a  blow,  a  slap  on  the  face  of  the  spirit,  a 
220 


Respectfulness. 

desperate  offence,  a  slave's  lot  if  it  be 
borne.  It  is  not  to  be  revenged,  but  it  is 
not  to  be  borne.  One  should  choose  to 
sit  in  a  desert  and  feast  off  his  soul  while 
the  body  should  dry  unto  death,  not  to 
consort  with  an  impudent  person  who  can 
use  a  bludgeon  on  the  spirit. 

A  blow  always  has  been  felt  a  base  in- 
dignity and  horror.  It  is  so.  Even  to 
touch  another,  save  with  great  conscience, 
is  an  offence,  such  is  the  sense  of  personal 
sphere  and  inviolate  retreat.  A  blow  is  a 
gross  horror.  I  have  read  somewhere  a 
story  of  a  servant  in  an  oriental  country, 
the  man  of  some  Frank  or  Saxon,  who 
killed  himself  on  being  struck  by  his 
master.  He  started  back,  a  look  of  horror 
spread  on  his  face,  and  drawing  his  dag- 
ger, he  said,  "You  are  my  master,  and  I 
have  eaten  your  bread;  I  can  not  lay  hands 
on  you,  neither  can  I  survive  such  abase- 
ment," and  he  struck  the  steel  to  his 
heart.  Therefore  an  impudence  is  such 
an  immense  wrong,  because  it  is  a  blow 
struck  on  the  spirit,  a  private  wrong,  a 
wrong  against  personality.  Other  wrongs 
fall  on  belongings  only,  like  reputation, 
property,  opportunity,  friendship  (if  it  be 
undermined  slanderously),  and  so  follow- 
ing; but  insolence  is  an  offence  against  in- 
ward rights  and  personal  state.  In  "  The 
221 


Respectfulness. 

Ring  and  the  Book,"  the  Tertium  Quid  of 
Rome,  answering  the  charge  that  Guido 
should  have  killed  at  first  or  not  at  all, 
exclaims, 

"Sooner?     What's  soon  or  late  i'  the  case? — ask  we. 

A  wound  if  the  flesh,  no  doubt,  wants  prompt  re- 
dress; 

It  smarts  a  little  to-day,  well  in  a  week, 

Forgotten  in  a  month;  or  never,  or  now,  revenge  ! 

But  a  wound  to  the  soul?  That  rankles  worse  and 
worse." 

This  vulgar  extraction  of  impudence — 
for  it  is  both  high-flown  and  truly  menial — 
has  many  faces  and  styles.  Direct  abuse, 
insolent  speech,  are  but  louder  swells  of 
impudence,  like  the  blare  of  a  horn  made 
loud,  but  the  same  brassy  thing  whether 
louder  or  softer.  Sneers,  intrusions, 
meddling,  undue  questions,  the  habit  of 
lecturing  other  persons,  flippancy,  pre- 
sumption, any  manner  of  forwardness, 
boldness  with  other  persons,  are  titles  of 
impudence,  though  they  be  done  in  breath- 
ings or  shake  their  little  fool's-bells  softly. 
I  have  noted  also  many  impudent  persons 
whose  notion  of  ill  temper  in  another  per- 
son is  that  he  will  not  put  up  with  their 
impudence, — a  very  grotesque  notion,  yet 
I  conclude,  one  of  the  natural  evils  of  im- 
pudence, and  a  punishment  of  it,  to  be  so 
ridiculous,  and  sticking  close  to  it.  Yet 
222 


Respectfulness. 

what  defence  have  we  from  an  impudent 
man?  The  only  way  not  to  be  hurt  by  an 
impudence  is  to  despise  the  source  of  it. 
But  some  persons  can  not  feel  that  con- 
tempt for  anything  above  a  monkey,  and 
so  by  their  own  virtue  are  open  to  the 
thrusts  of  the  impudent. 

I  know  not  whether  it  be  needful  to  en- 
force with  circumstance;  yet  examples  may 
do  more  than  words.  I  have  culled  some 
instances  from  my  observations  which  may 
serve  to  dress  up  this  Punchinello  for 
sight.  I  heard  a  bold  woman  ask  a  scholar 
whether  it  were  not  time  he  brought  some- 
thing to  pass  with  all  his  studying  and  fix- 
tures; a  gross  impudence  —  also  base  igno- 
rance therewith,  which  always  is  like  to 
cleave  to  impudent  spirits.  I  have  been 
told  of  one  who,  having  hurt  another  by 
some  ill  manners  or  inconsidered  act,  said 
easily,  "I  didn't  mean  anything,  child;'* 
an  impudence,  a  complacent  impudence, 
though  belike  too  fine  a  point  to  be  seen  by 
a  saucy  eye.  Of  another  I  heard  that  she 
called  loudly  down-stairs  to  bid  the  maid 
dismiss  her  company  because  the  clock  had 
struck  ten;  wanton,  vile  impudence,  a 
yokel's  trespass,  a  grievous  injury  and 
unkindness,  flagrant  ill-breeding.  A  cus- 
tomer desired  a  printer  to  bind  his  pam- 
phlet as  the  printer  should  please,  in  any 
223 


Respectfulness. 

pleasing  way,  and  when  the  books  were 
delivered  to  him,  wrote,  "  I  am  sorry  you 
have  chosen  for  the  cover  two  such  ugly 
colors;"  insolent,  very  insolent,  a  puffy  im- 
pudence, rude,  boorish  unkindness.  All 
such-like  manner  of  impudence  is  very 
vulgar,  base-born  or  very  ill-taught,  and 
has  a  coarse  grain  of  selfishness  in  it. 
From  the  Percies  I  have  a  story  that  a 
"Lord  Abingdon  who  was  remarkable  for 
the  stateliness  of  his  manners,  one  day 
riding  through  a  village  in  the  vicinity  of 
Oxford,  met  a  lad  dragging  a  calf  along 
the  road;  who,  when  his  lordship  came  up 
to  him,  made  a  stop  and  stared  him  full  in 
the  face.  His  lordship  asked  the  boy  if  he 
knew  him.  He  replied,  '  Ees.'  '  What  is 
my  name?'  said  his  lordship.  'Why, 
Lord  Abingdon,'  replied  the  lad.  '  Then 
why  don't  you  take  off  your  hat?'  'So  I 
will,  sur,'  said  the  boy,  ' if  ye  '//  hold  the 
.calf.'  "  If  the  selfishness,  unkindness, 
commonness,  ignorance,  all  that  makes  up 
the  lump  of  impudence  in  a  person,  could 
be  taken  out  and  set  up  to  sight  on  the 
road,  and  moulded  a  bit,  and  legs  gotten 
forth  from  the  shoulders  as  on  the  king's 
charger  in  the  Parsee  legend,  it  would  be  as 
stupid  in  face  and  in  fact,  and  as  spraw- 
ling and  perverse  over  the  road,  as  any 
calf;  and  if  the  person  from  whom  it  was 
224 


Respectfulness. 

extracted  were  still  tied  up  with  it  in  some 
manner  and  obliged  to  drag  it  along,  as 
much  as  if  still  it  were  in  him,  such  a  one 
might  say  very  seasonably  to  any  man  who 
should  complain  of  his  impudence  and  de- 
mand of  him  to  carry  himself  regard- 
fully,  that  he  would  indeed  if  but  any  one 
would  hold  the  calf. 

Contrariwise,  what  a  beauty  and  grace, 
how  kind  and  heartening,  from  what  a  fine 
root  of  nature  or  nurture,  is  a  constant  re- 
spectfulness of  feeling  and  manner.  Em- 
erson went  to  call  at  an  intelligence  office 
in  search  of  domestic  help,  and  the  poor 
woman  who  kept  the  place  said  afterward 
that  " he  treated  her  like  a  queen."  I  was 
present  once  by  a  good  chance  —  for  the 
picture  hath  hung  on  the  walls  of  my 
heart  till  this  day  —  when  a  student  came 
to  take  farewell  of  his  teacher,  an  aged 
scholar  known  to  the  learned  of  two  hem- 
ispheres. The  young  fellow  said  a  few 
words  of  gratitude,  to  the  effect  that  if  ever 
he  attained  to  any  rank  in  letters  it  would 
be  the  forthcome  of  the  love  of  scholar- 
ship, the  ideal  of  it  which  his  instructor 
had  inspired  in  him;  and  there  was  more 
in  face  and  voice  than  in  the  few  words. 
The  venerable  scholar  was  silent  a  little, 
and  then  said,  "Sir,  your  words  are  very 
welcome  to  me,  and  I  thank  you  for  this 
225 


Respectfulness. 

farewell.  I  should  have  been  specially 
grieved  if  you  had  gone  away  without  it,  for 
all  through  your  course  of  study  with  me 
you  have  shown  me  a  manner  of  respect- 
fulness—  if  I  may  say  so,  an  affectionate 
respectfulness  —  very  agreeable  to  an  old 
man."  I  knew  once  a  little  girl  —  bless- 
ings on  the  lovely  maid  she  has  grown  to, 
if  these  words  ever  shall  meet  her  eye!  — 
who  is  the  heroine  of  a  fine  picture  in  my 
mind's  gallery.  She  was  much  in  love 
with  her  uncle,  a  student;  the  little  golden- 
haired  damsel,  three  or  four  years  old, 
regarded  him  with  admirable  reverence.' 
One  day  she  was  seen  sitting  in  her  little 
chair  drawn  close  to  his  feet  looking  up  at 
him  with  great  worship,  while  he,  ab- 
sorbed in  his  book,  paid  no  regard  to 
her.  But  no  discontent  appeared.  She 
was  perfectly  respectful  of  him.  The 
little  fine  creature  knew  by  soul  the 
balance  of  observance  and  familiarity, 
that  double-star  of  the  domestic  heavens, 
and  was  ceremonious  to  the  scholar's  mood 
while  waiting  to  resume  the  playmate's 
freedom. 

Such  is  the  ugliness  and  the  beauty  over 
against  one  another.  King  Lear  said  it 
was  "  worse  than  murder  to  do  violent 
outrage  on  respect;  "  which  is  like  what  a 
friend  said  to  me,  that  he  thought  no  im- 
226 


Respectfulness. 

pudent  person  had  a  right  to  life.  And 
why  it  is  horrid  crime  to  stab  the  body, 
but  none  to  thrust  daggers  of  impudences, 
to  "hack  one  another  in  the  sides"  of  the 
soul,  who  can  see  reason?  On  the  other 
hand,  how  fine  and  far  shines  a  loving 
respectfulness!  With  what  a-light!  What 
a  sweet  virtue  of  love  it  is,  with  a  light 
above  common  virtues!  It  diffuses  a  bliss! 
Respect  means  originally  to  look  back  on, 
to  look  twice  or  sundry  times  on,  and  so 
to  give  heed  and  care.  Let  them  who 
would  dwell  in  one  another  take  note  that 
there  is  a  bare  lack  of  the  due  heed,  with- 
out more  offence,  which  may  hurt  more 
cruelly  than  a  stranger  can  do  with  what- 
ever scoffs  and  open  impudence.  There  is 
no  high  fervency  of  loving  without  much 
thinking,  and  again  thinking. 


227 


Education. 

XXIII. 

The  effects  of  kindness  in  affairs  are 
past  numbering,  of  which  Encouragement, 
Recommendation,  Advice,  Respectfulness, 
Help  in  many  forms,  Knowledge  imparted, 
Economy  of  matter  and  time,  are  but  a 
few  'titles.  Indeed  these  effects  are  mir- 
acles, and  if  all  were  written  down,  "the 
world  could  not  hold  the  books  that  should 
be  written."  Yet  another  must  be  added, 
to  wit,  Education;  for  this  is  one  of  the 
.great  results  and  powers  of  kindness. 
Truly  Education  must  be  the  work  of  lov- 
ing-kindness; for  it  is  but  the  drawing  of 
us  forth,  and  we  shall  come  forth  to  naught 
but  kindness.  Of  course  I  mean  not,  in 
the  office  of  training  others,  young  or  old, 
to  commend  a  weak  or  yielding  spirit 
which  can  hold  never  to  a  steady  purpose 
nor  go  onward  firmly  to  one  sure  point,  — 
foolishly  fond,  cruelly  indulgent.  For 
such  feeble  tempers  commonly  are  very 
cruel  in  effect,  however  they  be  in  mean- 
ing. For  very  often,  being  weak,  they  are 
unstable  and  capricious,  at  one  moment 
indulgent,  at  the  next  harsh,  and  each 
without  reason  or  reflection.  But  to  be 
228 


Education. 

indulgent  without  consideration  may  be  as 
cruel  in  near  effect  (if  one,  for  example, 
let  another  take  a  poison  because  it  tastes 
pleasantly),  and  as  calamitous  in  far  result, 
by  breeding  a  foolish  or  perverse  char- 
acter, as  an  unreasonable  gusty  harshness. 
Besides,  a  weak  yieldingness  of  temper 
drags  after  it  another  injury,  namely,  that 
it  despoils  others  of  loving;  for  only  firm- 
ness and  force,  decision  and  steadiness, 
can  draw  forth  much  love  or  good  love. 
Continually  it  is  seen  that  it  is  not  weak 
parents  or  teachers  who  are  beloved  by 
children.  In  many  ways,  therefore,  it  is 
plain  that  the  feeble,  unbraced,  unresolute, 
bending  temper  is  in  effect  a  cruel  one  as 
much  as  a  harsh  spirit. 

But  Education  must  be  done  by  a  large, 
unwearying,  ever  hopeful  loving-kindness, 
which  also  is  wise  withal  and  has  an  eleva- 
tion and,  if  so  I  may  say,  a  sternness  in 
its  love,  like  a  mountain,  very  kind  and 
full  of  prospects  to  a  climber,  but  stooping 
its  head  not  a  whit  to  loiterers  and  feeble- 
legged  gentry  at  its  foot.  For  who  will 
be  drawn  to  knowledge  or  to  any  good 
thing  by  cruel  acts  or  fierce  manners',  or 
by  coldness,  indifference,  void  of  atten- 
tion, or  by  weakness?  And  yet  what 
young  person  or  creature  can  withstand 
forever  the  entreaties,  example  or  instruc- 
229 


Education. 

tion  of  a  firm  kindness  which  never  tires? 
"  Consider,"  says  Marcus  Aurelius,  "that 
kindness  is  unconquerable  if  it  be  sincere 
and  not  an  affected  smile  or  acting  a  part. 
For  what  will  even  the  worst  man  do  to 
thee  if  thou  continue  to  be  of  a  kind  dis- 
position toward  him,  and  if  at  opportunity 
thou  admonish  him  gently  and  calmly  cor- 
rect his  errors  at  the  very  time  when  he  is 
trying  to  do  thee  harm,  saying:  '  Not  so, 
my  child.  We  are  constituted  by  nature 
for  something  else.  I  certainly  shall  not 
be  injured,  but  thou  art  injuring  thyself, 
my  child;'  and  show  him  with  gentle  tact 
and  by  general  principles  that  this  is  so, 
and  that  even  bees  do  not  as  he  does, 
nor  any  animals  which  are  formed  by 
nature  to  live  in  company.  And  thou 
must  do  this  neither  with  any  double 
meaning  nor  for  a  reproach,  but  affection- 
ately and  without  any  rancor  in  thy  soul, 
and  not  as  if  thou  wert  lecturing  him;  nor 
yet  that  any  bystander  may  admire,  but 
when  he  is  alone." 

This  sage  says  herein  that  kindness 
enough  prolonged,  which  means  unfailing, 
surely  will  educate  if  it  be  perfectly  sincere. 
But  what  an  "if!"  What  a  necessity! 
That  it  be  simple,  purely  genuine,  without 
selfishness,  pride,  or  any  falsity  in  it! 
Now  recall  I  at  this  moment  a  man  and  a 
230 


Education. 

woman  who  set  about  to  correct  or  change 
somewhat  in  the  situation  and  action  of 
a  friend  to  which  they  objected;  and  an 
excellent  good  motive  they  said  they  had, 
and  it  is  but  fair  to  take  their  word  for  it, 
since  the  soul  is  invisible,  and  believe  that 
there  was  much  spice  of  desire  to  benefit 
their  friend,  and  that  they  little  were  con- 
scious, as  animals  perceive  not  their  own 
odors,  of  the  wanton  pride,  ugly  vanity 
and  sanctimony  wherewith  they  set  to  at 
their  friend.  They  were  so  wantonly 
pleased  to  turn  lecturers  and  admonishers 
that  in  that  soda-flame  all  else  in  them 
turned  ghastly.  They  were  so  eager  for 
their  vantage  that  they  perceived  not  how 
they  danced  at  a  funeral  of  his  hopes  to  the 
tune  "  I  am  better  than  thou."  Then  were 
they  much  wonder-struck,  in  their  heart- 
blindness,  and  displeased  with  him,  be- 
cause he  pushed  back  their  boldness  and 
would  not  be  admonished  of  them,  being 
too  much  afflicted  by  their  skipping  gait 
and  impudence  and  satisfaction  with  them- 
selves. Yet  so  must  it  be;  for  a  jealous  or 
complacent  or  impudent  state  of  mind  has 
an  exceeding  intensity  of  color  wherewith 
to  stain  a  considerable  mass  of  good  in- 
tent, and  make  it  as  worthless  and  nauseous 
as  fair-looking  butter  in  its  yellow  pride 
which  has  imbibed  some  bad  odors,  tar  or 
231 


Education. 

oil  or  garlic,  set  near  it.  For  a  correcting, 
admonishing,  advising,  educating  can  be 
done  only  by  the  most  pure  simplicity  of 
love  and  unadulterated  sincerity.  Even 
very  common  natures,  yea,  and  very  bad 
characters,  whose  wits  and  senses  are  very 
blunt,  will  detect  a  false  ring,  a  vanity,  or 
a  mere  hue  and  cry,  in  an  attempted  re- 
proof or  instruction,  and  will  set  it  at 
naught.  Deservedly;  for  even  if  they 
would  do  well  to  twist  a  bad  thing  to 
their  own  profit,  the  bad  thing  has  no  claim 
to  it. 

But  to  a  great,  simple,  clear  loving- 
kindness,  all  things  will  yield  at  last — in 
time,  in  good  time.  If  it  be  a  far  time, 
kindness  must  be  patient,  for  some  things 
dissolve  slowly. 

Also,  kindness  must  be  wise  and  expect 
not  things  beyond  conditions.  We  must 
act  toward  all  things  according  to  their 
nature  and  "  acknowledge  everything  to 
be  what  it  is."  If  I  wish  to  try  the  vim  of 
kindness  on  a  tiger,  I  must  take  measures 
first  which  to  the  creature  will  not  seem 
kind,  and  very  surely  will  not  be  pleasant 
to  him,  nor  soft  and  gentle;  for  else  he 
will  eat  me  at  once.  It  is  not  kindness 
but  folly  to  enter  into  conversation  with  a 
tiger  on  supposition  that  he  is  like  a 
lamb,  or  that  he  is  a  lamb  in  fact  though 
232 


Education. 

to  our  eyes  a  tiger.  I  profess  no  non- 
resistance,  nor  feel  I  any  qualm  or  reluc- 
tance to  say  so,  as  if  half-fearful  that 
I  put  away  a  good  or  ideal  thing.  Force 
has  a  place  in  nature,  and  it  is  due  and 
should  be  active  in  some  moral  conditions 
or  events.  If  a  man  may  lay  constraining 
will  on  himself,  I  see  not  why  he  may 
not  lay  constraining  hands  on  another 
in  an  exigency.  For  why  inward  and 
mental  energy  and  decision  is  good,  but 
becomes  bad  when  it  passes  forth  into- 
the  outward  and  physical  at  need,  I  never 
could  see.  I  have  read  credibly  that 
Tolstoi,  being  pushed  on  his  doctrine  of 
non-resistance,  was  asked  whether,  on 
occasion  of  a  furious  man  holding  up 
in  the  air  a  child  and  lashing  the  quiv- 
ering little  creature  with  a  rod,  one  might 
interfere  by  force;  and  he  answered, 
"No."  "But  what  may  be  done?" 
"We  may  reason  with  the  man,  talk  to 
him,  beseech  him."  "But  if  he  be  deaf 
with  rage  and  either  hear  not  or  will 
not  listen,  and  continue  whipping  the 
child?"  "Then  we  have  done  wrhat  we 
can."  ."And  we  must  let  him  flog  the 
helpless  infant  because  we  may  not  take 
hands  to  him — we  must  stay  by  and  see  it 
to  no  purpose,  or  run  away  from  it,  be- 
cause we  may  use  no  force?"  "So." — 
233 


Education. 

What  a  besottedness  is  this!  And  all  be- 
cause it  is  written  in  Scripture,  "Resist 
not  evil,"  or  "the  evil  doer,"  which- 
ever we  shall  translate  it.  I  have  no  way 
to  follow  the  story,  to  explore  it  in  its 
source,  and  I  must  ask  forgiveness  of 
Tolstoi  if  this  tale  be  mythical,  which  pur- 
ported to  be  an  interview  with  him;  but  I 
suppose  it  is  of  a  piece  with  his  doctrine, 
though  it  be  the  extreme  of  it.  Neither 
have  I  read  what  he  may  say  for  himself  in 
this  vie^w,  nor  cared  to  read  it;  for  it  is  but 
to  expound  texts,  or  at  least  to  ground  on 
them,  sticking  as  fast  and  as  dangerously 
as  a  ship  on  a  sandbar  while  the  living 
ocean  beats  on  it.  And  truly  I  have  no 
time  to  read  any  one  wherein  he  is  not 
free  of  his  own  soul,  but  ties  himself  to 
some  text,  and  has  but  one  answer  and 
reason, — "It  is  written."  Now  simply  I 
say,  I  would  deal  with  everything  after  its 
kind,  and  not  with  a  furious  man  as  with  a 
•calm  one,  nor  with  a  robber  as  with  a 
peaceable  man,  nor  with  a  violent  and 
bullying  fellow  as  with  a  gentle  one.  I 
-would  not  leave  them  to  do  their  will  un- 
hindered if  belike  the  rage,  the  thievish- 
ness  or  the  impudence  have  smeared  them 
with  an  unction  from  which  bland  dewy 
words  roll  off.  It  may  be  useful  and  vir- 
tuous and  needful  to  knock  a  man  down. 
234 


Education. 

Do  it,  then.  But  do  it  with  love,  as  a 
surgical  tour  de  force,  inwardly  as  calm  and 
beneficent  as  the  heavens  that  insphere 
the  act,  the  soul  thus  being  as  righteously 
busy  as  the  fists,  each  after  his  own  fashion. 
I  say  with  conscience  that  I  believe  in 
fists  on  occasion,  and  in  staves,  and  in  bind- 
ing with  cords,  and  all  other  means  of  de- 
fence or  offence  short  of  killing;  and  by  no 
means  would  I  fail  to  perceive,  or  perceiv- 
ing, shirk,  an  occasion  for  them.  I  would 
advise  all  young  men  to  understand  sparring 
and  attain  to  skill  in  it,  so  that  on  proper 
occasion  they  may  be  found  equipped  with 
science  against  brute-force.  Moreover, 
the  sense  of  right  power  and  of  good  ad- 
vantage over  common  muscle  goes  very  far 
to  keep  the  heart  calm  and  benevolent  and 
make  the  blows  uncruel.  Naught  is  so 
disturbing  and  fury-engendering  as  a  sense 
of  weakness  and  non-mastery  when  one 
must  launch  himself  into  an  emergency. 

Here  will  I  avail  me  of  a  good  bit  of 
wisdom  from  my  Sister,  my  dear  Marian. 
She  will  be  no  stranger  to  these  views 
when  she  shall  review  these  sentences. 
For  this  is  no  new  matter  with  me,  but  old 
thoughts,  and  I  have  had  them  over  with 
her  and  "  tumbled  them  up  and  down  "  in 
our  talks  more  than  once.  And  her  loving 
soul  has  agreed  with  me.  "  For,"  said  my 
235 


Education. 

Dozen,  with  a  smile,  "  as  nature  has  not 
given  hard  fists  and  knotty  biceps  to  women, 
but  to  men  has  given  them,  the  meaning  is 
both  peace  and  war,  but  that  one  fighter 
is  quite  enough  for  two  persons;  and,"  she 
added,  with  a  roguish  beam  at  me,  "  also 
it  means  that  in  time  peace  shall  prevail 
utterly  and  there  shall  be  no  fighters  at 
all."  "Oh!  ho!"  said  I,  "how  makest 
thou  out  that?"  "Why,  thou  see'st, 
brother,"  answers  my  Dozen  demurely, 
"if  Abel  had  had  a  sister  instead  of  a 
brother,  she  would  not  have  asked,  '  Am  I 
my  brother's  keeper?,'  because  she  would 
have  known  well  that  she  was."  Hereat 
I  began,  "Thou  art  very  much  too" — . 
But  she  put  her  hand  over  my  mouth,  and 
with  that  advantage  continued,  "And  thou 
knowest  the  adage,  '  The  keeper  can  lead 
the  elephant  with  a  hair.'  'Tis  true,  we, 
the  sisters,  are  keepers  of  rather  wild 
creatures,  who  will  be  still  snarling  and 
clawing  on  a  chance;  and  sometimes  the 
wild  creature  of  one  of  the  keepers  breaks 
loose  and  falls  on  the  keeper  of  another 
with  tooth  and  nail.  Then  there  is  trouble; 
and  I  would  be  loth  to  think  my  brother 
would  not  fight  for  me  on  such  occasion." 
With  this  my  Marian,  who  is  given  to 
quick  changes  (you  have  seen  a  mantled 
pool,  gentle  reader,  which  lies  under  stars 
236 


Education. 

and  trees  like  crystal,  so  adamantine  seems 
the  diamond  surface;  but  so  tenderly  mo- 
bile is  it  that  a  sigh  will  rock  it,  nay,  a 
pencil  of  light  seems  to  carry  breeze 
enough  in  its  fan  to  ripple  it; — such  is 
Marian)  looked  at  me  with  a  sweet  ser- 
iousness and  loving  trust  which  moved  me; 
but  my  satisfaction  somewhat  was  dimmed 
by  her  action;  for  she  took  my  hand, 
whereat  methought  a  doubtful  look  stole 
in,  and  she  doubled  my  unpracticed  fist 
and  regarded  it,  and  methought  an  intelli- 
gent amusement  flickered  a  moment  at  her 
mouth. 

"We  are  agreed  as  to  the  goodness  of 
fighting  on  occasion,"  said  I,  "but  all 
turns  on  the  occasion,  and  how  we  are  to 
know  it  without  misadventure.  For  one 
person  will  find  never  an  occasion,  like 
Benedict  Button  who  agreed  that  a  wife 
must  be  ruled,  but  when  it  came  to  the 
point  of  an  occasion,  never  found  aught  in 
which  he  thought  he  should  rule  his  own 
wife;  and  others,  contrariwise,  make  so 
light  of  it  that  anything  is  occasion  for 
a  setting  to,  even  with  weapons.  There- 
fore, between  these,  how  may  the  right  oc- 
casion be  known  with  a  wisdom  sure 
enough  for  so  great  a  matter?  "  Now  this 
I  said  not  to  disprove  the  virtue  of  a 
"holy  war,"  (for  I  would  be  as  loth  as  my 
237 


Education. 

Dozen  to  think  I  would  not  use  my  fists 
for  her,  or  any  oaken  staff  at  hand,  in  a 
pure  fury,  at  need),  but  as  a  perplexity. 
For  it  was  what  a  good  disciple  of  George 
Fox  had  said  to  me  but  recently  when  I 
was  opening  this  subject  with  him.  "I 
grant  thee,"  said  he,  "that  there  may  be 
occasion  for  fighting;  but  I  would  remind 
thee  that  it  is  not  given  to  human  wisdom 
to  know  the  occasion.  That  what  may 
seem  like  an  occasion  truly  is  an  occasion, 
is  what  neither  thee  knows  nor  can  any 
man."  I  answered  that  this  rule  would 
cut  off  a  vast  portion  of  all  human  judg- 
ment and  action,  for  the  greatest  matters 
must  be  conducted  often  in  uncertainty; 
but  he  replied  that  it  was  right  to  do  many 
things  in  ignorance  and  hope,  but  that 
fighting  was  so  horrible  a  thing  that  it 
should  be  done  only  on  absolute  assur- 
ance. "But,"  cried  I,  "  who  can  have 
absolute  assurance  except  the  Infallible?" 
"True,"  said  he;  "therefore  leave  war  to 
God."  Now  when  I  told  my  gentle  Sis- 
ter this  conversation,  there  came  forth 
from  her  that  bit  of  good  wisdom  to  which  I 
have  referred.  "  I  think  the  Friend  is  mis- 
taken in  two  ways,"  said  Marian:  "  First, 
it  seems  to  me  not  true  that  fighting  is  the 
most  horrible  and  worst  of  things;  for  not 
to  fight,  supposing  the  occasion  real,  is  far 
238 


Education. 

worse,  as  I  think,  Brother.  Therefore  it 
may  be  very  much  worse  to  err  by  not 
fighting  on  real  occasion,  than,  by  fight- 
ing on  mistaken  occasion,  to  err  the 
other  way.  And  the  second  point  is  that 
we  are  not  left  without  due  guidance  in 
this  matter,  but  we  have  an  eye  specially 
able  to  discern  the  color  of  occasion  and 
know  it  efficiently.  That  eye  is  Peace. 
The  man  who  is  loving-kind  at  heart  and 
dearly  seeks  peace  will  know  when  there 
must  be  war.  He  will  know  the  occasion 
when  it  is  present.  But  the  unkind  will 
mistake  occasion  and  rush  to  it  when  there 
is  none;  and  therein  is  one  of  the  sad 
penalties  of  unkindness." 

So  said  my  Marian.  Ah!  thou  loving 
one  and  my  beloved,  thou  mindest  me  of 
the  fragrance  of  a  Kempis  when  he  saithr 
11  No  one  knoweth  to  speak  but  him  who 
loveth  to  be  silent,  and  no  one  knoweth  to 
command  but  him  who  loveth  to  obey."1 
We  have  been  very  poor,  my  Sister,  and 
young  were  thy  feet  when  they  came  to  the 
treadmill,  and  long  were  the  many  yoars 
of  thy  labors.  No  academe  has  waved 
its  shades  over  thee,  and  the  sciences  are 
unto  thee  like  stars  in  a  far  firmament. 
But  how  ripe  is  thy  mind  with  the  ripeness 
of  thy  soul!  How  sweet  is  thy  wisdom 
with  the  sweetness  of  thy  love!  How 
239 


Education. 

clear  are  the  humors  of  thine  eye  to  see 
truly!  How  reflecting  the  loving  quiet 
and  devout  patience  of  thy  spirit  which 
keepeth  thee  pellucid  to  receive  into  thy- 
self and  to  shape  again  in  thyself  all 
things  as  they  are! 

And  how  vain  and  astray  are  those  who 
think  to  ripen  in  portions,  and  without  the 
heart.  For  no  more  than  a  fruit  can  be 
red-ripe  on  one  side  and  green-crude  on 
the  other,  can  a  man  be  open  in  mind  and 
shut  up  in  heart.  If  the  fruit  so  be  soft 
on  one  cheek  and  hard  on  the  other,  it  is 
but  a  false  ripeness,  unperfected,  rather 
indeed  an  untimely  advance  to  decay,  and 
it  is  an  un-fruit-ed  fruit,  not  brought  to 
any  true  soundness,  and  the  part  which 
to  the  eye  so  is  seeming-ripe,  to  the  taste 
and  to  the  stomach,  which  are  the  true 
tests,  but  is  fair  falseness,  for  to  the  stom- 
ach it  is  unwholesome  and  to  the  taste 
it  has  a  bitter  or  else  a  flavorless  savor 
from  the  crude  portion  of  it.  Such-like  is 
a  man  who  being  still  untender  in  heart 
thinks  therewith  to  be  wise  in  mind,  or 
being  thoughtless,  untutored,  unearnest  in 
mind,  uncareful  to  get  knowledge  and  to 
reflect,  thinks  therewith  to  come  at  any 
good  virtue  and  perfectness  of  heart. 

If  a  man  have  the  learning  of  Sir 
Thomas  More  and  have  not  his  heart,  be 
240 


Education. 

sure  he  will  have  not  his  wit  and  wisdom. 
Nor  if  he  have  the  soft  and  gleeful  heart 
without  the  carefulness  of  reflection, 
neither  that  way  will  he  come  at  the  ripe- 
ness, to  be  large  and  wise.  For  neither 
can  one  think  well  without  loving,  nor 
love  well  without  thinking. 

And  yet  I  would  put  love  first  and  count 
it  most,  as  more  leading  unto  thought  and 
unto  the  seeing  of  things  as  they  are,  and 
thoughts  the  more  following  after  love,  and 
then  falling  back  unto  it,  to  die  in  it,  as  it 
were  like  leaves  in  the  soil,  to  enrich  it 
and  thereby  lift  themselves  from  it  to  a  new 
life,  more  in  numbers  and  in  beauty. 

Great  wit  without  love  is  a  corner;  but 
great  wit  with  great  tenderness  is  all  Na- 
ture. A  man  may  swell,  be  impudent, 
strut,  in  the  corner,  and  not  seem  therein 
very  ridiculous  to  himself,  nay,  nor  to 
others  much  out  of  keeping,  because  the 
corner  is  so  small.  But  in  Nature  there  is 
no  impudence,  nor  figuring  and  posturing, 
because  it  is  unlimited,  and  all  things  are 
harmonious  together  therein,  which  is  its 
greatness.  It  is  strange  to  me  how  topsy- 
turvy and  flatly  upsidedown  the  witty  do 
place  these  things  and  make  up  their  rank. 
A  woman  said  to  me  —  and  "a.  woman  well 
reputed,"  much  regarded,  being  witty  and 
well  knowing  her  wit  and  claiming  much 
241 


Education. 

on  account  of  it  and  assuming  foremost 
places  in  right  of  it  —  this  woman  said  to 
me,  "Oh,  I  am  not  tender,  I  make  no 
claim  to  be  tender!  "  and  she  might  have 
added,  for  so  did  her  actions  loudly,  "I 
claim  not  to  seek  to  be  tender  nor  to  bring 
myself  to  that  condition."  Now  in  saying 
this  she  spoke  with  no  compunction,  but 
rather  as  if  it  were  no  shame  to  a  woman 
to  lack  that  grace;  nay,  rather  as  if  she 
were  lifted  above  a  human  frailty  thereby, 
and  could  see  the  better  unbefogged  in  it. 
She  knew  not  what  a  portion  of  the  soul's 
sight  is  blinded  in  untenderness.  But 
never,  even  to  her  secret  self,  would 
she  have  avowed  a  like  lack  of  under- 
standing, or  if  secretly  conscious  of  it, 
that  she  would  have  been  ashamed  of, 
and  by  no  means  declared  it,  nor  allowed 
others  to  mention  it.  This  is  what  seems 
to  me  a  strange  topsyturviness,  a  putting 
of  last  things  first,  and  the  reckoning  of 
first  things  as  of  no  place.  Because  of 
this  inverting  and  transposing  of  things 
the  Nazarene  Master  foretold  another  turn- 
ing over,  that  the  order  should  be  set 
right  again,  and  the  things  now  first 
should  be  made  last  and  those  now  last  be 
made  first;  and  in  like  manner  Paul  says, 
"The  wisdom  of  this  world  is  foolishness 
with  Him.  It  is  written,  He  taketh  the 
242 


Education. 

cunning  in  their  craftiness.  For  God  often 
hath  chosen  the  things  accounted  foolish 
in  the  world,  to  put  to  shame  the  wise, 
and  the  weak  things  of  the  world  that  he 
might  put  to  shame  the  things  that  are 
strong;  and  the  abased  things  of  the  world 
and  the  despised  things  hath  God  chosen." 
With  this  thought,  that  in  love  groweth 
wisdom,  comes  back  my  mind  to  my  Mar- 
ian, my  heart-dwelling  Sister.  Equally 
doth  my  eye  rest  on  her,  and  my  mind, 
with  my  eye  beholding  her  joyfully  when 
she  is  present,  and  with  my  mind's 
eye  making  a  presence  of  her  when  she 
is  absent.  How  inexpressibly  do  I  de- 
light in  her  delicate,  lissom  beauty,  her 
loveliness,  her  tenderness,  her  aerial  pres- 
ence, her  spiritual  pervasion  round  about 
me,  her  strength  as  of  a  fine  Damascus 
blade,  and  her  mental  touch  of  rare  and 
singular  genius.  These  qualities  all  are 
joined  together  in  her  loving  goodness  like 
colors  in  white  light;  but  on  prismatic  oc- 
casion they  break  forth,  and  she,  the  sim- 
ple, the  sweet,  is  clothed  in  the  rainbow. 
How  often  I  sit  looking  silently  at  the  fine 
ellipse  of  her  brow  over  from  her  eyes  to 
the  gentle  obscurity  of  the  curve  in  her 
soft  hair  above  her  neck.  It  is  a  fine  and 
genius-carrying  symmetry,  that  same  fair 
curve,  rising  from  the  valley  of  her  eyes, 
243 


Education. 

not  like  a  masonry  or  cliff,  as  do  some 
foreheads,  straight  and  barren,  or  bulging, 
and  square-angled  at  the  temples,  but  like 
the  enriched  breast  of  a  slope  full  of  seeds 
and  roots  of  all  manner  of  bloom.  Nature, 
in  the  external  perfections  that  answer  to 
spiritual,  hath  been  careful  of  lines,  and  of 
the  continuance  of  them,  that  they  should 
sweep  over  and  around  in  fine  curves;  and 
howsoever  we  view  her  figures  and  heads, 
the  boundaries  should  be  lovely  lines  un- 
angled.  Often  have  I  observed  that  the 
head  and  brow  which,  from  the  eyes  over, 
follow  a  gentle  graceful  recession  unto  a 
fair  round  of  the  top  and  again  a  like  curv- 
ing descent  and  gentle  ingress  to  the  neck 
• — that  this,  I  say,  is  the  manner  and  shape 
of  head  which  shows,  not  a  genius,  for  this 
or  that,  but  genius  in  wholeness,  not  parts 
t(as  with  a  fine  ironical  instinct  we  dub 
-smart  wits),  but  a  unity,  of  fair  sane  power, 
harmony,  "poetic  justice,"  and  an  eye 
of  the  mind  to  see  things  as  they  are. 
Therewithal  have  I  noticed  also  that 
this  same  symmetry  of  curving  and  un- 
angled  contour  is  sign  of  expressiveness, 
of  the  gift  to  put  forth  ourselves,  by 
speech  or  other  arts,  in  forms  which  are 
beautiful,  poetic,  musical,  tender,  humane. 
Compare  the  heads  of  Bacon  and  Shakes- 
peare, that  massive  rampart,  that  forti- 
244 


Education. 

fication,  that  hostile  masonry  rising 
square  and  beetling  from  the  eyes  of  the 
one,  and  the  other's  invitation  of  brow, 
if  so  I  may  call  it,  the  humane  grace  and 
harmony  of  the  refluence.  Prate  not  to 
me  that  one  was  a  changeling  of  the  other 
in  the  cradle  of  poetry.  Their  heads  are 
enough.  That  square  brow,  of  front  and 
angles,  is  the  wall  whence  "  parts"  spy 
out  from  the  eye;  but  Shakespeare's  genial 
forehead  is  a  casement  where  the  man  in 
whole,  with  grace,  love  and  song,  sits 
at  window.  In  that  massy  cube  of 
Bacon's  forehead  could  not  have  been 
conceived  the  things  Shakespeare  has 
done,  even  if  the  cold  essayist  had  mayhap 
the  grace  to  envy  the  poet  righteously;  nor 
would  Shakespeare  have  cared  a  doit  to 
leave  his  persons  and  the  human  heart  to 
take  up  with  the  philosopher's  frigid 
cheapenings,  nor  put  his  large  fervors  to 
that  cynical  work,  "  though  it  cried  "  hon- 
ors "  never  so!  " 

Shine  still  in  me  and  around  me,  dear 
and  gentle  spirit,  my  Sister,  fringing  thy 
loving-kindness  and  thy  wisdom  with  the 
colors  and  corona  of  thy  delicate  genius. 
Bright  and  fair  is  the  morning  wherein 
these  words  are  written,  Nature's  gracious- 
ness  according  to  the  season;  but  more 
full  of  light  than  the  sky  hath  my  Sister 
245 


Education. 

dawned  in  me.  Soon  she  will  call  me  to 
our  morning  meal.  Know  I  not  her  ways? 
Her  feet  will  come  like  feather-falls  to  the 
door,  and  softly  as  a  violet  opens  will  the 
door  swing  to  her  hand,  and  cautiously 
will  the  ray  of  her  eye  creep  in,  like  morn- 
ing over  hills,  and  her  voice,  like  a  rustle 
of  silence,  will  say,  "  Hidalgo,"  which  is 
her  way  of  announcing  a  meal,  referring  to 
the  "  Hidalgo's  dinner  "  of  the  poet,  "very 
little  meat  and  a  great  deal  of  table  cloth;  " 
for  this  is  her  ideal  of  a  repast  if  the  cloth 
be  snowy.  Or  perhaps  she  will  nod  only, 
or  look  quietly,  if  I  seem  abstracted;  and 
all  lest  she  dim  or  break  some  "great 
thought  "  which  I  may  have.  So  will  she 
come;  but  already,  by  such  manner  of 
coming  which  is  known  unto  me,  and  by 
all  her  loving  reverence  of  spirit,  lest 
aught  be  disturbed,  she  has  arisen  in  me 
and  come  unto  me  more  than  the  sun  and 
shone  over  my  matin  page. 

And  here  she  is!  "Good  morning! 
Come  in,  Blessing!  Didst  hear  that  robin- 
whistle  among  the  sparrow-twitters  this 
morning,  the  first  of  the  Spring?  Ah!  I 
knew  it  would  not  escape  thine  ear." 


246 


Outcasts. 


XXIV. 

Kind  reader,  though  I  am  pleased  to 
write  this  chapter,  and  by  no  means  would 
omit  it,  yet  it  is  written  by  my  Sister's  bid- 
ding. I  had  finished  my  writing,  and 
Marian  had  it  in  hand,  when  she  said  to 
me,  "I  see  naught  herein  of  kindness  to 
the  outcast. "  ' i All  are  outcasts  who  receive 
no  kindness,"  I  answered.  "  But  some  are 
outcasts  first  and  thereupon  unkindly 
used,"  said  Marian. 

11  How  often  have  we  agreed,"  continued 
my  Sister,  "  that  the  present  dealings  with 
criminals  make  a  blot  on  our  civility;  and 
thou  hast  visited  many  of  the  cages  and 
barred  places  and  seen  the  abominations 
of  them."  "But,  Sister,"  said  I,  "the 
book  hath  its  plan  and  now  is  builded  ac- 
cording to  it.  If  I  add  another  chapter, 
will  it  not  be  like  hanging  out  an  unsightly 
and  unconformed  wing  on  a  house,  an  ex- 
crescence which  upsets  the  beauty  and  the 
gracious  outline?"  "That  is  naught," 
said  Marian.  "Thou  writest  not  for  beauty 
but  to  do  good,  and  gatherest  beauty  by 
247 


Outcasts. 

the  way  because  it  is  one  of  the  tools  for 
doing  good  withal. "  "  Beauty  is  its  own 
excuse  for  being,"  I  murmured.  "True," 
said  my  Dozen;  "wherefore,  seek  the 
greater  beauty.  If  thou  can  write  words 
which  will  count  in  one  heart  anywhere,  to 
awake  the  thought  that  society  shares  in 
the  crime  of  the  criminal,  and  the  ques- 
tion what  duty  lies  therewith  on  society, 
thou  wilt  build  a  greater  beauty  in  that 
soul  than  the  architecture  of  a  book.  And 
if  thou  add  some  discourse  for  the  sake  of 
kindness  and  justice,  I  mistake  much  if  it 
will  be  found  like  a  hanging  ugliness,  but 
rather  like  a  fair  part  which  was  latent  and 
has  grown  forth.  Besides,"  so  continued 
my  Dozen,  "  I  think  not  only  thy  book  lacks 
a  virtue  if  thou  neglect  this  justice  and 
mercy  in  it,  but  thy  discourse  of  education 
therewith,  which  thou  endest  with  speak- 
ing of  children,  lacks  a  fair  and  round  out- 
line if  thou  omit  to  speak  of  the  educing 
and  disciplining  of  wayward  persons  and 
outcasts." 

Bethink  you,  reader  —  and  if  there  be 
two  reading  together,  a  brave  man  and 
tender  woman,  who  mysteriously,  being 
invisibly  one  in  love,  have  become  visibly 
one  in  children,  in  the  perilous  joy  of 
them,  in  the  anxiety  of  them  because  they 
must  meet  the  world's  temptations  and  be 
248 


Outcasts. 

washed  around  with  the  eddies  of  society,, 
bethink  you  the  more  —  whether  we  share 
not  sadly  and  be  not  very  answerable  in 
the  fate  of  the  shameful  creatures  who 
now  are  in  the  small  cages  in  the  prisons. 
Have  not  we,  though  free,  accessory  guilt 
with  those  who  are  confined?  What*  say 
you?  That  you  can  recall  no  prison-like 
act  of  yours,  nor  ever  did  you  set  any  one 
going  toward  the  cages?  Nay,  I  would 
not  imagine  your  souls  to  be  bruised  in 
that  manner.  But  tell  me,  if  society  so  be 
formed  and  so  act  in  body  and  soul  as  to 
make  rotting  and  sore  places  which  exhale 
criminality,  where  is  the  conscience  about 
it?  Who  is  to  be  loaded  with  that  foul- 
ness? Who  must  feel  guilty  of  it?  Shall 
no  one  be  burdened  with  the  festering  heaps 
except  those  whom  the  noisome  steams, 
have  made  sick?  It  is  a  hard  thing  to  find 
the  conscience  of  the  whole;  but  your  con- 
science, my  conscience,  must  be  aroused, 
till  at  last  and  at  least  we  use  our  mouths 
and  cry  aloud  and  say,  Shame  on  usE 
Then  will  the  little  leaven  have  entered 
which  will  raise  the  whole  lump  after  a 
season. 

Here  is  the   simple  truth,    namely,  that 

the  whole  social  structure  is  accessory  ta 

crime  and  in  complicity  with  it;  and  being 

so,  we  do  worse  than  the  criminals  if  we  be 

249 


Outcasts. 

indifferent  to  our  part  in  making  criminals, 
and  then  the  more  and  worse  if  we  hale 
them  out  as  aliens  and  castaways,  and 
trample  on  them  already  down,  and  con- 
sume the  last  of  their  self-respect  in  the 
vileness,  shames  and  hardships  of  small 
-cages.  That  society,  however  bad,  must 
defend  itself,  I  admit;  because  there  are 
many  innocent,  and  because  if  the  social 
structure  be  preyed  on  too  much  by  its 
own  spawn  of  crime,  it  will  reach  no  bet- 
ter state,  nay,  will  be  eaten  up.  There- 
fore there  are  men  who  must  be  imprisoned, 
and  women  too  (what  woe  it  is!);  but  why 
should  lodgings  for  prisoners  be  so  mean, 
so  hateful?  Why  should  there  not  be  a 
progressive  discipline?  Why,  by  steps  of 
•discipline  should  not  the  felon  be  housed 
comfortably,  treated  kindly?  Would  room, 
light  and  furniture  be  follies?  If  these 
help  up  self-respect  and  have  some  healing 
-virtue  when  healing  may  be  possible,  what 
•else  should  we  seek?  And  if  no  cure  be 
possible  and  we  must  immure  the  man 
iorever,  is  there  good  reason  for  doing  it 
cruelly,  and  with  degradation,  or  not  rather 
as  kindly  and  peacefully  and  elevatingly  as 
we  can,  and  with  sorrowful  conscience? 

What?     Say  you  such  measures  of  com- 
fort and  kindness  are  too  costly?     I  think 
they  would  be  a  part  of  a  vast  saving;   for 
250 


Outcasts. 

such  good  things  never  will  be  until  the 
selfishness  of  social  life  be  purged  much, 
and  then  withal  crime  itself  will  be  done 
away  or  abated  greatly;  and  the  costliest 
of  all  things  is  crime.  But  what  if  a 
right  manner  of  detention,  firm  and  un- 
wavering, sure,  unfickle,  but  gentle,  kind, 
nursing  self-respect,  be  more  costly  than 
our  cages?  'Tis  a  question  not  of  cost  but 
of  who  is  answerable  and  what  is  right. 
If  society  by  its  ignorance,  greed,  selfish- 
ness, iniquities  and  frauds  of  many  kinds, 
league  with  the  criminal's  temptation  and 
crime,  then  shall  we  skulk  from  the  cost 
of  things  favorable  to  salvation? 

Besides,  what  aim  we  at?  If  revenge, 
we  are  barbarous;  if  prevention,  we  are 
foolish;  even  looking  but  at  the  useless 
cost,  foolish.  What  could  be  a  more  costly 
gigantic  failure  than  the  cages?  Have 
criminals  become  rare  by  them?  Have 
the  cages  awed  the  starving,  the  brutal, 
the  lustful?  What  reformation  and  re- 
pentance, or  revenge  and  hatred  rather, 
have  they  cast  up  on  society  when  they 
have  disgorged  themselves  of  their  uneasy 
meat  at  the  end  of  the  term  of  sentence? 
When  rescued  they  ever  a  sinking  pride, 
revived  a  forgotten  hope,  roused  an  un- 
manned spirit? 

Wherefore  I  say  again  that  it  is  no  ques- 
251 


Outcasts. 

tion  of  cost,  to  a  manly  heart,  but  of  what 
the  aim  shall  be,  and  of  who  is  answerable, 
and  whether  there  be  not  a  divided  blame- 
worthiness  and  society  be  not  accessory  to 
the  making  of  the  criminal.  Look  with 
enough  love  (which  is  the  secret  of  seeing 
anything)  at  the  sources .  which  recruit 
"the  dangerous  classes"  (so  we  call 
them,  but  they  are  no  more  dangerous  to 
us  than  we  to  them),  and  one  of  two  things 
is  clear,  namely,  that  either  we  are  not 
enough  intelligent  nor  have  knowledge  to 
deal  with  men,  boys,  women,  girls,  with- 
out cages,  or  we  are  callous,  brutally  in- 
sensible to  the  madness  and  misery  behind 
the  bars,  and  the  distresses,  vagabondage, 
filth,  vicious  education,  which  rear  the  in- 
mates of  cells! 

On  this  sunny  morning,  when  now  I 
write  these  words,  ah!  how  delicious  is  my 
life  and  liberty!  But  under  this  sun,  not 
seeing  it,  men  are  lying  in  the  iron  cages 
of  many  cities,  because  they  are  what 
every  thing  and  every  influence  around 
them  from  babyhood  has  made  them. 

My  liberty,  say  I  !  Just  my  liberty  this 
sunny  morning!  How  precious  it  is!  My 
power  to  go  whither  I  will — what  a  bliss! 
The  sun,  the  verdure,  the  sounds  of  the 
earth,  the  rustle  of  the  business  of  men,  the 
voices  of  creatures,  birds,  trees,  and  my 
252 


Outcasts. 

life  among  them,  how  delicious!  What 
ecstasy!  But  what  is  my  desert  of  it  all? 
Is  my  fine  freedom  the  meed  of  my  virtue? 
Or  of  my  virtue?  We  who  walk  about  free, 
fortunate,  glad,  we,  the  well-dressed,  well- 
fed,  amiable,  we,  who  never  were  vagrants 
nor  felt  the  lash  of  disease  or  appetite  in- 
herited— whence  come  the  fine  feathers 
that  we  plume  ourselves  withal?  In  some 
tribes  only  the  tried  brave  may  wear  eagles' 
plumes.  Where  were  we  tried?  Were  we 
vagrants  from  infancy?  Were  we  beggars, 
whipped  at  home,  kicked  abroad,  loafing 
in  stables,  gaming-dens,  drink-shops? 
Sometimes  the  city  is  startled  by  a  sudden 
bulging  crime,  a  huge  embezzlement  or  a 
dreadful  violence,  in  the  "  best  society." 
It  is  thought  a  terrible  marvel.  Who 
could  have  conceived  it?  Who  could  have 
suspected  that  he,  the  courted,  the  ad- 
mired, the  trusted,  could  fall  in  that  man- 
ner? But  it  amazes  not  the  thoughtful. 
They  know  the  unhappy  man  had  not  been 
tried  and  his  seeming  virtue  was  no  more 
than  circumstance  and  fortune.  Mayhap 
in  a  finer  chemistry  known  in  heaven  there 
is  a  qualitative  analysis  that  often  finds 
but  the  same  substance  in  fine  free  worth- 
ies and  in  caged  outcasts.  Who  may  not 
be  humbled  sadly  if  he  reflect  how  much  of 
his  respectability  he  may  owe  to  circum- 
253 


Outcasts. 

stance,  and  how  little  of  a  feat  then  his 
character  or  life  is,  it  having  been  so 
sheltered  and  so  safe!  And  even  if  we 
have  a  fine  endowment  by  nature,  what  of 
it?  Is  it  ours?  Made  we  it?  On  what 
ground  can  we  stand  to  puff  up  ourselves 
and  be  elated  about  our  personality?  Con- 
fronting the  deeps  of  the  issues  of  life,  we 
are  all  alike.  I  heard  a  preacher  once 
speak  slightingly  of  "  second  or  third  rate 
persons."  I  know  no  second  rate  persons. 

"  In  all  people  I  see  myself,  none  more  and  not  one 

a  barley-corn  less, 
And  the  good  or  bad  I  say  of  myself  I  say  of  them." 

Wretched  and  accidental  are  the  dis- 
criminations of  human  justice.  They 
pierce  not  to  reality.  Here  every  day  we 
may  charge  ourselves  with  freedoms  for 
which  many  a  poor  son  of  man  has  suf- 
fered the  knout  in  Russia  or  beheading  in 
Turkey  or  disemboweling  in  China  or 
dungeons  in  France  or  tortures  in  Spain, 
or  hanging  in  this  country  a  while  back. 
Both  as  to  vile  guilt  and  as  to  mischief  it 
is  possible  to  sin  worse  outside  the  law 
than  in  its  clutches.  Easy  and  comfort- 
able is  it  to  steal  enormously  by  ways  that 
law  troubles  not  itself  with,  nor  would  if  it 
could.  These  ways  are  common  shames, 
well  known.  They  pad  the  shoulders  of 
254 


Outcasts. 

public  service,  of  dealings  in  land  and  in 
stocks,  and  of  much  trade.  But  this  is 
stealing,  of  a  piece  with  the  pickpocket, 
sneak-thief,  shop-lifter,  housebreaker.  I 
can  see  but  one  line,  one  face,  one  flesh. 
The  safe  sinner  is  a  little  criminal,  the 
criminal  is  a  large  sinner;  nay,  nor  may 
they  be  called  little  or  large  but  inter- 
changeably, and  the  prison  not  deciding. 
Often  what  odds  is  there  but  courage? — 
and  the  daring  spirit  very  like  is  the  no- 
bler, and  no  more  harmful  mayhap,  than 
the  secure  thief  who  from  the  vantage  of  a 
base  prudence  or  a  puny  muscle  or  respect- 
able opportunity  or  the  law's  blindness, 
squints  at  his  big  brother  in  a  cage. 

Speaking  of  the  fine  feathers  we  flaunt 
withal,  we,  who  never  were  tried,  but 
housed,  nursed,  guarded,  blest  from  the 
beginning,  calls  to  my  mind's  eye  a  strange, 
sharp,  careless,  pathetic  youngling  face,  a 
boy  I  saw  and  knew  long  ago;  nor  know  I 
what  became  of  him,  and  I  feel  it  a 
shame  that  I  know  not.  He  was  running 
wild  and  in  great  danger.  A  skittish 
urchin,  a  bright-eyed  little  fellow,  with 
naught  coarse  or  brutal  in  his  face.  But 
there  was  need  of  vast  skill,  tact,  heart, 
patience,  humility  in  dealing  with  him, 
He  could  not  be  kept  at  school — some 
places  he  would  not  endure,  others  would 
255 


Outcasts. 

not  endure  him.  He  was  whipped  habit- 
ually by  his  father.  If  now  perchance  he 
be  in  a  cage,  is  it  all  his  fault?  For  he 
was  out  and  free  once.  Had  the  whole 
community  not  wit  enough  to  keep  him  so? 
Or  not  soul  enough  to  care,  or  think,  or 
pay  for  it?  The  question  between  society 
and  that  boy  (and  his  name  is  Legion)  is 
one  of  interest  in  a  moral  doom.  How 
important  think  we  it  that  the  boy  should 
be  followed  with  divine  constancy,  not  left 
to  himself,  but  walled  with  all  the  re- 
sources of  society,  like  a  mother's  arms 
around  a  babe  in  his  first  steps?  And 
what  are  the  resources  of  society?  What 
wit  have  we  to  invent,  what  love  to  apply, 
what  devotion  to  pay  for  appliances  equal 
to  that  labor?  Feel  we,  as  if  in  our  own 
ilesh,  for  that  boy  the  pitfalls  of  idleness 
and  passions?  Rather  give  we  not  flaunt- 
ing vice  and  dissolute  men  full  scope  to  do 
their  worst  on  the  unguarded  or  the  way- 
ward? See  the  ten  thousand  hands 
stretched  out  to  pull  him  down.  He  is 
like  a  child  floating  in  a  sea  full  of  water- 
devils  invisible  except  by  the  hands  rising 
from  under  the  surface  to  snatch  at  him. 
Want,  hunger,  libertinism,  drunkenness, 
avarice,  all  play  for  him.  What  is  .the 
counter-move  of  respectable,  sheltered, 
happy  people?  What  skill  or  fervor  have 
256 


Outcasts. 

we  in  that  desperate  game  for  a  soul? 
Have  we  either  morality  alive  to  it  or  wit 
equal  to  it?  I  see  it  not;  neither  feel  I  it 
in  myself,  nor  find  I  it.  Well  then,  the 
time  may  come  when  the  little  sad  vaga- 
bond, who  had  no  choice  in  his  inheritance 
as  to  body  or  soul  or  conditions,  may  be 
an  injury  or  a  threat  to  society  so  bad  that 
he  must  be  seized  and  caged.  But  he 
will  not  be  so  extreme  a  failure  as  our 
boasted  knowledge  and  civility,  able  to 
lock  up  the  man  and  willing  to  pay  for  it, 
being  hurt  by  him,  but  neither  able  in  wit 
nor  having  the  good  will  of  our  pockets  to 
redeem  the  child.  Nor  know  I  how  we 
dare,  fronting  the  face  of  this  huge  failure 
in  ourselves,  to  cage  him  in  a  grated  cell 
like  a  wild  beast,  bare,  comfortless,  in- 
decent ! 

But  to  the  indifference  or  ignorance  of 
society  a  sad  and  large  count  must  be 
added.  Not  only  negatively,  by  indiffer- 
ence, the  community  is  answerable  for 
criminals,  but  by  the  positive  way  of 
direct  temptation  and  incitement.  Will 
there  not  be  of  necessity  small  stealing 
where  large  stealing  flourishes?  Consider 
the  power  of  riches  how  great,  ambition 
how  venturesome,  competition  how  bitter. 
And  especially  in  a  new  country  where 
chances  are  so  many  and  society  foams 
257 


Outcasts. 

and  lashes  itself  after  money,  consider  how 
great  belike  will  be  the  individual  wishes 
.  and  envies.  Consider  then  the  effect  on  a 
poor,  ill-provided,  ill-balanced  man,  or  on 
one  untaught,  with  no  trade  and  little  edu- 
cation, thereby  driven  to  subsist  by  what 
wits  he  has  in  what  way  he  may  —  con- 
sider the  effect  on  such  a  man  of  the  sight 
of  enormous  stealing  stalking  all  over  the 
country  in  the  management  of  corpora- 
tions, in  the  trade-confusing  gambling  of 
speculators,  and  in  the  notorious  corrup- 
tions of  municipal  governments.  Can 
aught  be  more  suitable  to  confound  moral 
distinctions?  What  thoughts  will  such 
sights  nurse  in  hungry  or  greedy  men? 
What  indeed  but  that  life  is  a  game  be- 
tween ' '  ins  "  and  ' '  outs, "  in  which  it  is  their 
ill  luck  to  be  out;  that  thereupon  if  they 
snatch  their  small  prey  when  they  find  it, 
they  are  guilty  of  naught  worse  than  the 
vulgarity  of  picking  up  small  things!  Add 
the  compounding  of  felonies,  in  which  be- 
like the  detective  taxes  both  his  employer 
and  the  thief  to  his  mind  before  aught  can 
be  gotten.  Add  the  infamous  intimacy  of 
the  police  with  bad  classes  in  large  cities, 
wherein  it  has  transpired  often  that  officers 
collect  hush-money  from  evil  places  under 
threats  of  disturbing  them.  Truly  society 
has  forcible  ways  of  provoking  the  pas- 
258 


Outcasts. 

sions  and  breaking  to  pieces  the  moral 
sentiment  of  the  unreasoning  and  needy. 
The  untaught  it  makes  soon  the  ill-taught. 
Such  things  are  sources  of  moral  disease 
which  far  and  wide  spread  bane  and 
poison.  To  eyes  smeared  with  that  pitch, 
society  looks  like  no  more  nor  better  than 
a  clash  and  warfare  of  private  interests,  in 
which  any  one  may  have  what  he  can  seize 
and  hold.  But  not  only  by  suggestion 
and  example  do  these  abominations  of 
selfishness  teach  and  nurse  crime,  and 
the  more  because  the  large  thieves  com- 
monly are  powerful  and  sought  after, 
since  there  are  so  many  who  wish  to 
share  the  spoils  —  not  only  so,  but,  more 
or  worse,  they  induce  a  perverted  eth- 
ical doctrine.  Willful  thieves,  who  steal 
by  trade,  it  is  well  known  often  show 
no  moral  sense  in  the  matter.  It  has  be- 
come their  ethical  doctrine  that  "  the 
world  owes  them  a  living"  and  they  sim- 
ply take  their  own  when  they  help  them- 
selves and  the  only  evil  is  that  they  are 
vulgar  in  it  because  they  can  lay  hands  on 
so  little.  So  spreads  the  poison  of  selfish 
greed,  and  the  same  disease  which  makes 
the  fortunate  man  obese  covers  the  lean 
and  luckless  with  little  sores. 

But  consider  again  (although  this  lies  in 
what    I    have   said    already,    yet    consider 
259 


Outcasts. 

again  and  more  particularly)  that  the  trade 
doings  of  society  tear  to  pieces  all  sense  of 
human  brotherhood.  Conceive  a  man 
affected  by  severe  want,  stung  by  shabby, 
cold  or  hungry  children  in  his  home,  igno- 
rant, able  to  take  sides  and  make  cause, 
but  unused  to  think  closely  or  widely. 
Now  consider  the  effect,  on  such  a  man, 
of  gross  monopolies,  speculations,  cun- 
ning and  violent  interference  with  natural 
distribution,  "corners"  in  the  necessaries 
of  life,  in  wheat,  corn,  fuel,  sewing- 
machines.  If  he  think  at  all,  and,  by  not 
thinking  to  the  full,  think  ill,  consider  how 
it  must  affect  his  feelings  and  impulses  to 
know  that  every  man  he  meets  in  the 
street  would  be  glad  at  any  moment  to 
seize  the  supplies  of  all  necessaries,  so  as 
to  trade  on  his  hunger  or  his  nakedness  at 
gains  swelling  to  riches  in  a  day. 

Under  this  breaking  of  humanity  to 
pieces,  and  such  provocation,  if  a  man  steal 
by  violence  or  craft,  what  can  we  do? 
What  is  left  us?  To  sit  down  and  weep 
plentifully  for  him  and  for  ourselves?  No. 
He  must  be  locked  up,  or  otherwise  con- 
trolled. One  of  the  bad  parts,  because  it 
is  strong,  must  chastise  the  other  bad  part 
because  it  is  weak;  for  the  weak  must  not 
prey  on  the  strong,  else  whence  shall  come 
any  progress?  But  the  society  that  has 
260 


Outcasts. 

taught  the  felon  how  to  steal  and  flaunts 
itself  in  stealing  grandly  while  whipping 
his  small  robbing,  sinks  lower  than  he  has 
fallen  if  it  turn  thievish  also  of  every 
moral  hope  of  him  by  the  infamy  and  pol- 
lution of  a  cage.  Stern  and  strong  belike 
must  be  the  discipline  by  the  state  at  first, 
but  progressive,  careful,  and  done  humbly 
by  society,  to  the  end  of  ministry,  pity, 
sympathy  and  help. 

But  if  we  speak  of  the  positive  incite- 
ments which  the  community  composts 
crime  withal,  what  shall  be  said  of  liquor 
retailing,  that  « rank  offence"  which 
"smells  to  heaven,"  the  crime  of  society 
against  sanity,  adding  mania  to  misery  and 
spurring  temptation  with  frenzy!  Who 
will  argue  this  matter?  Who  will  enter 
to  debate  it?  Would  not  any  one  think  it 
a  strange  thing  if  I  should  argue  to  him 
that  he  must  love  his  little  children? 
"We  take  some  things  for  granted." 
What  a  monster  were  that  man  who  should 
ply  his  boy  with  unclean  sights,  sounds, 
opportunities,  thereupon  to  chain,  torture 
or  kill  him  for  a  bad  act  or  fancy!  But 
how  otherwise  acts  society  if  it  pour  into  the 
veins  a  liquid  fire  and  then  slay  for  arson? — 
if  it  ply  the  wretched,  discontented,  un- 
taught, the  fierce,  the  diseased,  with  burn- 
ing drink  till  the  nerves  be  ruined, 
261 


Outcasts. 

character  gone,  reputation  killed,  want 
gnawing  like  a  wolf,  animosities  turned  to 
fury,  and  the  woe,  anger,  moral  blindness 
and  madness  break  out  in  robbery  and 
murder;  and  then  it  torture  its  victim  in  an 
iron  cage  or  hang  him  from  a  gibbet? 
How  society  may  deal  with  that  pander  of 
woe  and  sire  of  criminals,  the  liquor- 
seller,  I  am  not  wise  to  know.  Sumptuary 
laws  are  very  hard  to  apply.  But  until 
society  be  stirred  by  a  sense  of  responsi- 
bility, by  an  unselfish  fervor  and  a  deeper 
religion,  to  learn  how  to  sweep  the  liquor- 
seller  from  the  earth,  it  is  meet  it  should 
bow  its  head  in  ashes  before  the  victims 
whom  now  it  but  gets  out  of  its  sight  into 
the  cages. 

But  alas!  the  liquor-seller  is  himself  a 
criminal,  an  extra-legal  criminal.  I  would 
deal  no  more  harshly  or  scornfully  with 
him  than  with  any  criminal.  Society  shares 
with  him  the  responsibility  of  his  being. 
Rather  would  I  heap  my  judgment  and 
scorn  on  myself  if  ever  I  helped  support 
him  by  drinking  anything  at  those  tragical 
counters  where  the  drunkard  buries  his 
sanity,  where  pass  the  funerals  of  domes- 
tic peace. 

But  here  must  I  fend  off  a  wrong  infer- 
ence from  these  reflections.  I  would  be 
careful  not  to  weaken  the  individual's  ac- 
262 


Outcasts. 

count  with  himself.  It  is  not  for  naught 
nor  by  any  accident  that  the  sense  of  will, 
of  power,  of  choice,  and  of  our  own  an- 
swerableness  and  fault  "if  we  go  wrong,  is 
so  deep  in  us.  It  is  sure  that  each  one  is 
more  than  a  bit  of  flotsam  and  jetsam 
driven  just  as  the  waves  may  wash.  It  is 
wholesome  and  truthful  to  say  to  the 
criminal  that  for  his  own  health  he  must 
fasten  his  eyes  on  his  own  fault  and  know 
that  he  has  himself  to  reproach  if  he  fall 
into  the  base  cages.  But  no  less  true 
is  it  that  if  the  criminal  can  come  to  no 
health  without  conviction  of  his  own  fault, 
neither  can  society  chastise  or  help  him  to 
health  but  by  humbly  acknowledging 
therewith  its  own  blame  and  share  in  his 
disorder.  And  soberly  I  see  not  how  any 
one  who  will  survey  the  whole  can  conclude 
less  than  that  it  is  the  selfishness,  the 
greed,  the  cruelty,  overreaching,  lies, 
luxuries,  stealing,  ignorance  and  barbar- 
ism of  society  which  is  most  answerable 
for  the  wretchedness  and  evil  of  the  doers 
of  crime. 

But  the  word  "barbarism"  in  this  last 
sentence  recalls  me  to  a  just  patience  with 
all  free  offenders  as  well  as  for  the  caged 
ones;  I  mean,  patience  with  all  of  us,  with 
society.  Society  is  but  an  inheritance; 
and  when  we  consider  from  what  state  and 
263 


Outcasts. 

origin  it  has  come  forth,  it  is  a  wonder, 
and  a  proof  of  God,  that  it  has  come  forth 
at  all  and  is  as  good  as  it  is.  Harshness 
continually  laps  over  from  a  lower  to  a 
better  state  of  society;  so  that  what  first 
was  a  barbarism  among  barbarians,  per- 
sists far  into  a  milder  state,  by  reason  of 
•"imperfect  sympathy,"  lack  of  attention, 
force  of  custom,  sluggish  imagination; 
until  it  is  a  revolting  incongruity,  out  of 
all  likeness  to  the  conditions  about  it. 
Hence  comes  a  deal  of  that  penal  cruelty 
with  which  society  has  been  drenched 
from  the  marshes  of  its  origin,  as  any  one 
may  learn  and  illustrate  abundantly  by 
study  of  the  changes  in  venerable  penal 
codes.  Therefore  I  would  not  spend 
harsh  words  on  society  for  its  harsh  blows 
on  the  criminal.  The  community  is  not 
vicious.  There  is  much  desperate  selfish- 
ness and  distressing  callousness;  but 
mainly  this  is  vulgar  more  than  vicious. 
Society  is  ill-taught,  with  a  brutal  inheri- 
tance to  wrestle  with,  and  so  ignorant  as 
not  to  perceive  that  to  cage  men  vindic- 
tively is  but  to  harness  itself  as  a  draught 
beast  to  the  cages.  "We  are  all  alike;  " 
and  if  we  call  to  the  mind's  eye  an  ideal 
humanity,  we  shall  conclude  we  are  all  bar- 
barous together,  and  know  it  is  impossi- 
ble, by  decree  of  nature,  for  a  corner  of 
264 


Outcasts. 

the  community  to  be  savage  except  as- 
therewith  society  throughout  is  barbarized. 
Meantime,  there  is  one  person  whom 
every  man  should  watch  strictly,  to  wit, 
himself;  first  to  see  to  it  that  he  commits 
not  under  delicate  shelters  deeds  which 
truly  are  of  a  piece  with  those  that  hurry 
men  to  the  cages  under  vulgar  exposures; 
and  secondly  to  examine  himself  humbly — - 
whether  he  have  good  wit  and  good  culture 
enough  to  be  capable  of  moral  sympathy. 
"Any  one,"  says  Lecky,  in  his  "  History  of 
European  Morals,"  among  some  wise, 
words  on  our  treatment  of  criminals — 
"Any  one  can  conceive  a  fit  of  drunken- 
ness or  a  deed  of  violence;  but  few  per- 
sons, who  are  by  nature  very  sober  or  very 
calm  can  conceive  the  natural  disposition 
that  predisposes  to  it.  *  *  *  To  realize; 
with  any  adequacy  the  force  of  a  pas- 
sion we  have  never  experienced,  to  con- 
ceive a  type  of  character  radically  different 
from  our  own,  above  all  to  form  any  just 
appreciation  of  the  lawlessness  and  obtuse- 
ness  of  moral  temperament  inevitably  gen- 
erated by  a  vicious  education,  requires  a 
power  of  imagination  which  is  among  the 
rarest  of  human  endowments. "  But  when- 
ever this  power  be  not  a  happy  "endow- 
ment," I  would  not  toss  it  away  on  that 
account,  as  no  one's  concern.  For  if  a 
265 


Outcasts. 

man  be  born  eyeless,  he  is  to  be  pitied; 
but  if  he  will  not  have  a  sick  eye  cured 
that  he  may  see,  he  is  contemptible.  I 
would  put  it  forward  that  this  heavenly 
imagination,  conceiving  after  that  divine 
manner  which  "  sees  the  thought  of  the 
heart,"  may  be  labored  unto  and  attained 
by  reflection  with  conscience  and  love; 
Tvherefore  a  man  should  be  ashamed  to  be 
void  of  intellectual  and  moral  sympathy, 
the  power  to  feel  by  conception  what  we 
have  not  felt  in  our  own  fibres,  to  enter 
into  a  mental  and  moral  condition  and  into 
a  force  of  circumstances  all  alien  to  us. 
This  is  a  hard  thing,  nay,  the  last  rare 
feat  of  a  generous  culture;  but  let  any  one 
be  ashamed  and  class  himself  but  vulgarly 
till  he  shall  have  come  to  it.  It  is  an 
angel  who  never  will  lay  a  cool  hand  on 
one  who  crowds  selfishly  through  life,  see- 
ing men  only  as  thjey  may  be  pressed  to 
aid  him  while  he  seizes  what  he  can,  and 
crying  vindictively,  when  the  criminal,  an- 
other plunderer,  rends  the  same  social 
order,  "  Away  with  him!  To  the  gallows! 
To  the  cages!"  Intelligent  justice  comes 
of  humane  reflection  and  of  a  habit  of  look- 
ing on  men  curiously  and  tenderly  in  our 
daily  walk  as  creatures  plunged  in  a  social 
struggle  wherein  few  are  much  above  the 
common,  and  few  much  below. 
266 


Children. 


XXV. 

I  have  read  of  taming  the  hyena  and  the 
wolf,  till  they  pine  after  their  masters; 
even  the  wasp  has  been  educated  till  it  has 
been  made  "placable  and  mild."  If 
fierce  brutes  are  to  be  softened  and  edu- 
cated by  kindness,  it  is  known  well  that 
better  or  needfully  they  should  be  taken 
very  young.  Likewise  among  men,  child- 
hood is  the  instructor's  "  prime  of  w'orld." 
In  the  training  of  children,  kindness  stands 
on  the  hill-top  of  its  realm;  it  may  travel 
widely  around,  but  it  can  go  no  higher. 
I  have  said  hereinbefore  that  kindness,  to 
be  of  force  for  education,  must  be,  first, 
perfectly  pure  and  sincere,  without  vanity 
or  self-importance;  secondly,  not  a  weak- 
ling's pliancy,  but  firm,  and  disciplinary  if 
occasion  be;  thirdly,  applied  according  to 
the  nature  of  things,  differently  to  a  tiger 
and  to  a  lamb,  to  one  disposition  and  to 
another.  In  these  three  traits  of  a  kind- 
ness good  for  educating,  shine  well  forth 
what  the  child  needs,  namely,  a  kindness 
that  is  very  pure  and  utterly  loving,  un- 
'267 


Children. 

selfish  and  devout,  and  this  firm  and 
strong,  and  then  studious  withal,  studious 
of  the  child's  special  nature,  and  wise  to 
deal  with  him  as  truly  he  is,  with  under- 
standing. 

Let  blows  be  put  away.  The  hand  that 
leaps  quickly  to  give  a  blow  to  a  child,  has 
not  escaped  the  temper  and  subtle  memory 
of  having  been  a  claw  afar  back.  I  say 
not  that  whipping  never  is  wise  and  always 
brutal;  yet  he  is  brutal  in  it  who  does  it 
without  an  awful  conscience.  I  would  lay 
down  this  rule,  that  the  only  case  in  which 
it  is  right  to  apply  whipping  except  (if  in- 
deed there  be  any  exception)  after  long  and 
sorrowful  reflection  and  with  a  shrinking 
conscience  and  after  a  multitude  of  patient, 
vain  efforts  by  other  means,  is  a  case 
wherein  it  is  necessary  for  the  child's 
bodily  safety  to  make  a  sudden  effect  on 
him.  For  example,  I  knew  a  father  whose 
little  girl  had  a  habit  of  running  up  to 
strange  dogs  and  throwing  her  arms  about 
them,  hanging  on  them.  And-this  she  did 
in  spite  of  warning.  The  habit  was  too 
dangerous.  There  was  no  time  to  await 
the  slow  work  of  reason.  One  decided 
whipping  was  effective,  and  the  child 
dropped  the  practice.  But  mark  well  that 
one  source,  and  mayhap  the  greatest,  of 
the  effect  of  the  punishment  was,  that  it 


Children. 

was  rare  and  momentous.  If  the  tender 
creature  had  become  used  to  blows  by 
dodging  or  suffering  chance  slaps  day  by 
day,  little  power  would  have  been  left  to 
the  chastisement. 

How  is  it  possible  to  look  on  a  child 
without  a  kind  of  heart-ache  at  the  pathos 
of  its  helplessness?  How  cruel  harshness 
is,  or  cold  neglect,  how  dreadful  fierce  and 
angry  blows,  upon  these  little  beings  who 
cling  to  us  like  clusters  on  a  vine!  It  is 
by  our  good  juices  they  must  be  ripened. 
If  the  vine  be  bad,  what  hope  for  them! 
Children  can  be  brought  to  that  bloom  and 
blossom  of  young  life  which  is  so  exqui- 
site, or  to  that  excellence  of  ripe  mid-age 
which  is  so  honorable  and  blest,  only  by  a 
raining  and  beaming  on  them  of  many 
forces  as  sweet  and  tender  as  dew  and 
light, — I  mean,  utmost  loving-kindness, 
exceeding  forbearance,  just  eyes  to  see  our 
own  faults  in  the  child,  quickness  of  sym- 
pathy, inventiveness  to  give  pleasure  or 
grace,  much  companionship,  much  liberty 
too,  confidence  given  and  won,  contrivance 
and  ingenuity  in  gentle  leading.  And 
withal,  as  I  have  said  before  that  there  is 
a  large  vanity  and  conceit  in  unkindness, 
so  there  will  be  no  very  good  parental 
kindness  without  humility;  for  sad  or  bad 
is  he  who  can  look  on  his  child  without 
269 


Children. 

awe,  or  compare  its  needs  and   his  attain- 
ments without  remorse. 

It  is  very  important,  under  head  of  kind- 
ness, and  especially  of  kindness  to  child- 
ren, that  we  reckon  highly  the  value  and 
authority  of  a  wish.  I  like  Wollaston's 
principle  in  his  "Religion  of  Nature." 
"Those  pleasures  are  true,"  says  he, 
"and  to  be  reckoned  into  our  happiness, 
against  which  there  lies  no  reason.  For 
where  there  is  no  reason  against,  there  is 
always  one  for  it,  included  in  the  term," 

The  question  is,  Which  should  be  the 
disposition  of  mind,  whether  to  say  "yes" 
or  to  say  "no?  "  Since  there  are  so  many 
requests  in  life,  and  asking  and  wishing . 
make  so  large  a  part  of  experience,  it  is  a 
question  not  a  little  important  how  we 
should  be  predisposed'  to  entertain^  re- 
quests. 

Now  this  we  shall  answer  wisely  if  we 
look  at  all  things  in  the  two  classes  in 
which  naturally  they  stand,  to  wit,  things 
moral  and  things  indifferent.  As  to  moral 
matters,  the  answer  is  easy  that  neither 
"yes"  nor  " no  "  should  have  prescription, 
but  that  each  case  must  stand  by  itself. 
For  when  once  a  moral  quality  is  settled, 
action  also  is  settled,  if  it  shall  be  dutiful. 
But  in  respect  to  matters  indifferent  there 
will  be  a  balancing  of  judgment  which 
270 


Children. 

must  decide.  Herein  is  room  for  predis- 
position, and  this  should  be  to  say  "yes. " 
For  though  judgment  be  called  into  ser- 
vice, yet  in  many  cases  the  asking  itself 
must  weigh  in  the  judgment.  And,  be- 
sides, there  will  be  many  instances  in 
which  the  thing  asked  will  be  neither  wise 
nor  unwise,  expedient  nor  inexpedient  in 
itself,  but  a  privilege  or  pleasure,  or  even 
it  may  be  a  whim.  Now  the  principle 
should  be  this;  that  if  anyone  ask  any- 
thing of  us,  his  wish  is  a  good  reason  why 
he  should  have  it  and  why  we  should  grant 
it,  unless  there  be  some  better  reason 
against  the  same. 

This  has  wide  application  and  no  day 
passes  but  we  meet  occasions  for  it.  But 
though  it  be  useful  for  all,  and  though  life 
would  be  an  Eden  if  always  this  principle 
ruled,  the  dearest  and  best  application  of 
it  is  to  children.  For  the  requests  of 
children  are  many;  wherefore  to  grant  or 
to  deny  them  makes  constant  points  of 
pleasure  or  of  disappointment.  And  with 
this,  children  are  so  much  the  less  able  to 
bear  disappointment  with  philosophy,  and 
so  much  the  more  jubilant  in  their  pleas- 
ures, that  either  way,  the  "yes"  or  the 
"  no  "  is  of  much  matter.  It  is  a  kind  and 
wise  remark  of  Buckle  that  it  is  a  very 
serious  thing  to  diminish  the  pleasures  of 

271 


Children. 

any  one;  and  it  is  but  a  kind  addition 
thereto  to  say,  that  not  to  enlarge  them 
when  we  can  is  the  same  as  to  cut  them 
off.  A  poet  has  the  same  thought,  "To 
stifle  righteous  wishes  is  a  murder." 

It  is  beyond  doubt  that  joy  and  sadness 
store  themselves  in  the  soul.  They  sink 
into  the  heart,  making  a  state  thereof 
which  meets  life's  difficulties  well  or  ill. 
For  if  a  child  grow  to  a  soul  in  which  joy 
has  become  a  habit,  he  will  look  for  the 
joy  in  all  paths,  and  looking  find  it; 
since  what  we  find  is  in  the  eye,  because 
all  qualities  lie  in  all  paths  to  be  picked 
out,  though  proportions  differ.  But  con- 
trariwise will  be  the  child's  collections 
from  experience  if  sadness  be  the  habit. 
And  besides,  the  one  is  strength,  the  other 
weakness;  joy  is  force,  grief  inertia;  hap- 
piness is  concentration,  pain  disper- 
sion. Wherefore  the  child  •  whose  spirit 
has  been  dowered  with  kindly-given  pleas- 
ures in  right  manner,  is  armed  for  life's 
conflicts  and  has  a  strong  place  whither  to 
retire  if  in  any  combat  he  be  worsted. 
Therefore  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  erected 
this  tower  of  joy  in  a  child's  soul.  To 
give  joy  in  the  present  which  becomes 
strength  in  the  future  is  a  divine  act.  Of 
this  a  poet  says,  happily: 

272 


Children. 

"  Make  beautiful  to  children  their  young  days. 
Despise  not  nor  neglect  the  smallest  joy. 
Thou  makest  them  for  the  day  as  little  gods; 
Nay,  for  their  lifetime  thou  implantest  in  them 
A  gladsome  mood  and  ever  cheerful  heart. 
The  pleasures  of  their  youth  will  pass  away, 
And  it  will  come  one  of  these  pleasant  days 
They  will  know  nothing  more  of  the  ripe  nuts 
They  knocked  down  from  the  tree;  the  leaping  pole. 
No  more  they  know  the  smile  their  mothers  wore 
To  see  them  bring  the  basket  full  of  grapes. 
Yet  as  all  joy  struck  down  into  the  soul, 
They  always  hope  for  kindness  from  the  world." 

And  the  same  poet,  Schefer,  writes  to  a 
mother  of  five  children: 

41  Five  suns  thou  hast  created;  five  earths,  too, 
And  moons  no  less;  and  many  hundred  springs, 
And  many  hundred  thousand  roses,  fruits; 
For  to  glad  hearts  alone  creation  is, 
Five  mothers,  one  to  each,  five  fathers,  too, 
Hast  thou  created  for  love's  tenderness." 

And  the  same  poet  also  instances  the 
pleasure  which  is  stored,  when  a  child, 
grown  old,  can  talk  of  his  father  or  mother 
to  his  own  children,  because  his  parents 
were  such  joyful  pleasures  to  him: 

11  In  the  days  to  come 
They  to  their  children  will  delight  to  talk 
Of  thee,  as  thou  to  them  wast  wont  to  talk 
About  thy  mother,  and  they  will  listen  there 
As  to  the  story  of  a  miracle, 
With  reverent  stillness  and  with  frequent  sigh." 
273 


Children. 

One  secret  of  the  disposition  to  say 
"yes,"  is  quickness  of  memory;  and  this 
is  the  same  thing  as  continuance  of  youth. 
For  many  times  we  say  "no"  to  children 
because  of  imperfect  memory,  unmindful  of 
our  own  thoughts  at  that  age.  Forgetting 
how  we  felt,  we  snap  a  little  childish  stem 
of  pleasure  ruthlessly.  But  I  know  not 
how,  in  the  cares  of  life,  this  memory  can 
be  revived  without  thought  and  pains. 
Therefore  he  who  can  say  each  day,  while 
yet  the  child  is  little,  "  Let  me  see  here 
again  what  I  was,  and  happily  vault  the 
wall  of  time  to  that  early  garden  which  I 
walked  in,  that  I  may  cut  off  no  flower 
from  my  child's  path  which  I  shall  rec- 
ollect my  delight  in  "  —  he  will  tend 
always  to  say  "yes." 

Sometimes  again,  parents  deny  or  force 
their  children  unwisely  or  harshly  be- 
cause of  lack  of  experience.  For  new 
things  spring  up  for  children,  new  kinds 
of  exercises  the  like  of  which  the  child- 
hood of  the  elders  knew  not;  and  of  these 
we  are  often  too  ignorant  to  judge  well, 
and  it  is  a  great  safeguard  if  then  we  have 
the  leaning  to  say  "yes."  For  this  dis- 
position helps  out  our  ignorance  by  means 
of  the  children's  judgment,  which  is  better 
equipped  in  these  new  facts  than  our  own. 
This  reflection  I  but  quote  from  Marian. 
274 


Children. 

She  delivered  it,  as  I  remember  well,  on  a 
night  when  she  surprised  me  with  an  early 
return  from  a  visit  to  John  River's  family. 
She  came  across  the  two  gardens,  through 
the  shrubbery.  The  night  was  misty  and 
pitchy.  She  wore  a  scarlet  drapery. 
When  suddenly  she  appeared  in  the  gar- 
den door  of  our  study,  what  with  the 
color  of  the  garment,  the  beam  of  her 
smile  and  her  streaming  hair  (for  it  had 
fallen  down),  methought  a  bolt  of  light  had 
broken  from  the  darkness  and  all  the  room 
was  fire  with  it. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  thou  fiery  ghost,"  said  I, 
"and  I  will  put  out  the  lamp,  not  to  be 
dazzled  by  both  of  you." 

"That  were  like  putting  out  the  sun  in 
order  to  enjoy  the  moon,"  said  Sister, 
"for  the  moon  would  follow  the  sun  into 
darkness.  There  must  be  a  light  in  thine 
eye  before  I  can  be  visible." 

"Ah  yes!"  said  I  seriously;  "which 
shows  the  difference  between  the  eye  and 
the  mind's  eye.  Thou  thyself  wouldst 
enkindle  my  soul  to  behold  thee." 

"Nay,"  said  Marian,  "they  are  not  so 
different.  There  must  be  light  in  the  soul 
first.  'Tis  only  light  that  knows  light;  as 
Galileo  said,  i  You  can  not  teach  any  one 
anything;  you  only  can  help  him  to  dis- 
cover it  within  himself!'  Which  reminds 
275 


Children. 

me,"  continued  Dozen,  "  of  what  neighbor 
John  this  evening  said  of  himself  and  his 
boy  and  their  wheels.  Having  set  up  his 
lad  with  a  bicycle,  he  then  required  of  him 
its  constant  use,  as  an  economy,  to  save 
the  pennies  which  otherwise  he  must  pay 
for  riding  on  errands  and  to  school.  And 
often  he  forced  this,  calling  the  lad's  un- 
willingness laggard.  But  afterward,  hav- 
ing learned  the  use  of  the  wheel  himself, 
he  found  what  it  was  to  cope  with  long 
stretches  of  rutty  and  slippery  street  and 
with  crowding  teams,  through  which  lay 
the  lad's  course  to  school,  and  no  longer 
pushed  him  on  that  score,  not  because  the 
boy  was  more  willing  to  traverse  the 
slime  and  furrows,  but  because  the  father 
grew  wiser  than  to  wish  it,  by  dint  of  hav- 
ing tasted  it." 

I  feel  not  so  sure  of  many  things  as  of 
this  gracious  principle,  that  a  wish  carries 
its  own  reason  for  granting  it  unless  there 
be  a  stronger  against  it.  And  be  it  said 
that  sluggishness,  or  languor,  or  inatten- 
tion in  us,  or  some  effort  or  inconvenience 
required  of  us,  make  no  good  reasons  for 
denial;  for  he  who  will  refuse  a  child,  or 
any  one,  wished  things  because  he  must 
move  his  body  a  little  to  get  them,  is 
either  very  lumpish  flesh  or  a  very  slug- 
gish heart.  I  have  thought  that  of  all  sad 
276 


Children. 

losses,  the  saddest  are  the  openings  for 
giving  happiness  which  we  enter  not,  but 
rather  again  close  up.  This  will  be  known 
to  anyone  who  will  count  but  for  a  day  or 
two  what  he  might  have  done  to  raise  a 
little  joy,  but  did  not,  and  will  reflect  how 
keen  a  thing  enjoyment  is  when  he  feels  it 
himself,  and  what  wings  it  gives  to  time, 
what  riches  to  memory.  Especially,  per- 
haps, if  we  consider  how  much  of  our  own 
enjoyment  is  made  or  hindered  by  others, 
and  often  by  very  little  things  which  they 
do  or  do  not,  we  shall  judge  better  of  our 
own  disposition  as  to  saying  "yes"  or 
saying  "  no." 


277 


Beauty. 


XXVI. 

It  is  worth  a  chapter  to  say  what  a  great 
beauty  is  the  beauty  of  kindness,  both 
what  it  makes  in  the  home  and  what  it 
makes  in  the  face,  and  in  the  whole  body 
indeed;  for  with  its  grace  it  overflows  all 
parts.  This  beauty  bred  an  incident  for 
me  recently  that  has  hung  an  oddly  fair 
picture  in  the  chambers  of  my  soul. 

I  will  not  say  that  kindness  is  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world,  and  makes 
more  beauty  than  any  other  thing.  For 
then  forthwith  arise  in  judgment  all  noble 
moral  qualities — honesty,  truthfulness,  sim- 
plicity, faithfulness,  patience,  gratefulness, 
modesty,  piety.  All  these  have  and  impart 
a  beauty  which  is  the  beauty  of  God;  and 
kindness  can  do  no  more.  But  kindness 
can  do  as  much,  and  has  a  very  great 
beauty  and  inlays  the  same,  and  is  not 
surpassed  in  it  by  any  of  the  good  qualities. 

Consider  the  beauty  created  in  the  home 

by  kindness  in  its  two  parts,  the  negative 

part,  that  we  do  no  one  any  harm,  and  the 

positive  part,  that  we  do  every  one  all  the 

278 


Beauty. 

benefit  we  can.  For  kindness  in  these  two 
parts  in  the  home  is  like  the  two  parts  of 
cultivation  in  a  garden,  namely,  the  keep- 
ing of  the  ground  free  and  open,  not  seized 
on  by  undesired  things,  and  then,  in 
second  and  even  better  part,  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  things  desirable  and  lovely. 
But  much  is  done  if  even  the  first  part  be 
done,  which  is  to  keep  the  ground  free; 
for  when  noxious  and  weedy  things  are 
warded  off  and  the  surface  is  open,  fair 
and  fine  things  will  till  it  for  themselves 
and  with  themselves,  springing  up  because 
there  is  place  free  for  them.  For  beauty 
ever  is  on  the  watch  to  come  in.  If  then 
to  the  place  left  ready  and  open,  cultiva- 
tion of  delicate  and  sweet  plants  be  added, 
and  beauty  be  helped  in,  what  a  double 
and  fine  loveliness  grows  thereupon  ! 
Then  do  the  lawns  look  like  smooth  mo- 
saic-bits from  the  green  horizon  of  twilight, 
and  the  parterres  are  harmonies  of  every 
manner  of  blossom,  color,  fragrance. 

So  is  the  home.  If  but  the  negative 
part  of  kindness  be  in  it,  much  beauty 
springs  up,  because  the  unlovely  has  not 
preoccupied  the  room,  and  if  there  be  no 
bad  seeds  sprouting,  there  will  be  sure  to 
be  some  good  ones.  But  if  now  positive 
kindness  be  added,  then  is  cultivation 
brought  into  service.  Choice  is  made  of 
279 


Beauty. 

the  good  things  that  shall  grow,  and  they 
are  trained  to  grow  at  their  best.  Whence 
comes  great  beauty  in  the  home.  That 
there  is  no  unkindness  is  a  fallow  field 
which  then  active  kindness  fills  with  fine 
and  rich  growths.  By  another  figure, 
simply  the  negative  part,  of  kindness,  that 
no  one  does  harm  or  pain  to  another,  is 
like  a  bare  wall  in  a  house,  well  made  and 
ready  and  of  a  good  tint;  then  comes  posi- 
tive kindness,  that  every  one  does  all  the 
pleasure  and  grace  he  can  to  the  others, 
and  hangs  the  wall  with  pictures. 

"It  is  good  government,"  says  Con- 
fucius, "when  those  who  are  near  are 
made  happy  and  those  who  are  far  are 
attracted; "  but  when  the  near  are  made 
happy,  it  is  sure  the  far  will  be  attracted. 
The  kindness  and  thence  happiness  in  a 
house  draws  company,  and  the  best  com- 
pany, gracious,  cheerful,  gentle,  sincere, 
akin  to  the  atmosphere  which  draws  them. 
It  is  kindness  in  the  home  that  makes  the 
door  swing  and  peals  of  sweet  voices  and 
laughter  and  lovely  faces  come  in.  It 
makes  the  tea-table,  the  ring  of  china  and 
glass,  sweet  bread,  the  steam  of  urns, 
good  cheer,  good  talk,  the  lamp,  song,  and 
the  odor  of  melilot.  What  beauties  be 
these!  And  only  in  a  "house  where  great 
kindness  is  do  they  break  forth. 
280 


Beauty. 

Kindness  invents.  It  sets  forth  happy 
things  for  others  as  objects,  and  considers 
inventively  how  to  compass  them.  And 
this  cannot  be  done  without  many  beauties 
and  adornments  issuing.  Also  there  is  no- 
source  of  more  gracious  beauties  in  a 
house  than  good  hospitality;  and  kindness 
makes  this  and  keeps  it  good, — not  osten- 
tation, pride,  expense,  surfeit,  crowds,  but 
sincere,  simple,  frugal,  loving,  private  in 
dear  groups,  and  not  rare  and  on  oc- 
casions, but  perpetual,  habitual. 

But  consider  not  only  the  house  but  the 
persons,  the  beauty  fashioned  in  the  face 
by  kindness  in  its  two  parts.  The  nega- 
tive kindness,  that  we  do  no  hurt  or  harm,, 
leaves  the  face  free,  like  good  ground 
weeded.  It  is  much  that  no  ugly  passions, 
hatred,  envy,  jealousy,  greed,  occupy  the 
face.  There  is  so  much  beauty  in  the 
soul  awaiting  exit  and  so  much  beauty 
outside  pressing  for  entrance,  and  the  two 
so  do  invite  each  other,  that  if  the  face  be 
but  left  free  and  open  by  the  negative 
kindness,  a  fairness  will  begin  to  over- 
spread it  like  a  thin  verdure.  For  beauty 
can  be  prevented  altogether  in  no  wise  but 
by  the  preoccupancy  of  ugliness.  But 
when  to  the  negative  kindness  is  added 
the  positive  that  we  consider  how  to  make 
joys  and  benefits  for  persons  around  us? 
281 


Beauty. 

then  springs  beauty  wonderfully  in  the 
face,  and  in  the  form  too,  in  postures,  mo- 
tions, in  the  outlines  that  come  of  exer- 
cise. For  power  in  the  face  is  but  life  in 
the  face,  and  bad  life  gives  power,  being 
life  though  bad,  but  good  life  gives  the 
strength  which  is  beauty  also.  Beauty  of 
body  is  a  moral  fact.  I  mean  it  lies  truly 
in  the  soul,  which  the  face  expresses  or 
exposes  to  us.  I  deny  not  that  'there  may 
be  a  lovely  soul  in  an  uncouth  body,  like 
a  fine  thought  in  a  clumsy  sentence;  but 
not  for  long,  because  the  soul  never  ceases 
working  at  the  body  by  the  continual  ex- 
ercise of  the  gestures  and  motions  which 
express  the  goodness;  and  never  all  nor 
mainly  ugly,  for  under  the  sweet  impulses 
combined  motions  of  features  and  of 
members  continually  will  occur  which 
will  shed  graces  and  beauties.  We  are 
•surprised  by  them  as  if  some  fair  portions 
or  shapes  of  the  body  had  escaped  us  in 
shadow  and  suddenly  a  light  is  thrown  on 
them.  And  sooth  it  is  light — light  that 
breaketh  out  from  within. 

And  again  there  be  faces  which  have 
no  fault  in  them  except  that  there  is  no 
good  in  them.  In  shapes  they  are  very 
fair,  but  in  shape  they  are  not  fair.  Ex- 
amine the  nose,  you  can  not  improve  it. 
Discourse  of  the  eyes,  you  must  sing. 
282 


Beauty. 

Tell  of  the  cheeks,  you  must  be  a  limner 
with  color  and  a  soft  touch.  Speak  of  the 
hair  you  must  be  poet,  seeing  streams  of 
bronzed  cirrus  sweep  the  horizon.  De- 
scribe the  brow,  it  has  a  good  fullness,  and 
is  draped  like  an  ivied  wall.  And  the 
mouth  hath  the  curves  of  Apollo's  bow. 
And  yet  in  these  features  all  together  there 
is  no  beauty  in  the  face.  For  it  is  not 
enough  that  the  nose  might  example  fine 
curves  and  the  eyes  give  pleasant  ellipses 
and  the  skin  make  delicate  parchment  and 
the  hair  be  golden  braids  and  the  brow  be  a 
shapely  aegis  and  the  mouth  be  like  a  del- 
icate carving;  for  all  these  can  not  make  a 
face,  because  a  face  is  a  thing  of  soul. 
Therefore  all  these  parts  may  be  faultless 
in  it,  and  yet  there  be  no  beautiful  face. 

Whence  it  is  that  artists  who  fail  in 
faces  —  tyros  or  poor  limners — fail  not 
by  making  a  vicious  face,  which  never 
they  do,  but  by  making  no  face.  I 
mean  there  is  naught  in  it;  it  is  vacant, 
dead,  or  rather  never  came  to  life.  Emer- 
son has  spoken  of  a  preacher  whom 
once  he  heard,  who  was  "spectral."  "He 
had  lived  in  vain.  He  had  no  one  word 
intimating  that  he  had  laughed  or  wept, 
was  married  or  in  love,  had  been  com- 
mended or  cheated  or  chagrined."  There 
be  such  faces,  as  if  naught  had  come  to 
283 


Beauty. 

life  in  themselves  or  their  ancestry. 
They  have  no  deep.  It  is  impossible  to 
think  that  much  grieving  or  rejoicing  or 
conceiving  goes  on  behind  them,  and  the 
eyes  are  no  better  than  spy-holes  after 
victuals  and  drink.  Yet  these  faces  may  be 
symmetrical  and  well  colored.  At  least 
it  is  not  easy,  no,  nor  possible,  very  like, 
to  tell  what  is  the  lack  in  outline,  or  in  the 
lines  of  the  outline;  and  to  many  eyes 
there  is  no  lack,  the  lines  and  tints 
are  sufficient.  They  say  it  is  a  handsome 
face.  But  beauty  comes  only  of  the 
moral;  and  the  vision  for  it  from  the  same. 
I  say  not  that  shapely  features  are 
worthless.  No  doubt  a  fine  crystal  vessel 
filled  with  clear  water  will  have  a  com- 
pound beauty,  the  beauty  of  the  vessel 
and  the  beauty  of  the  water  (albeit  the 
flagon's  beauty  is  some  maker's  soul  in  it 
and  the  beauty  of  the  water  is  the  soul  of 
the  rain  and  the  sea);  and  so  it  may  be 
with  the  features  and  colors  of  the  face, 
when  the  features  have  lovely  lines  and 
the  complexion  is  pellucid  warmth,  if  then 
kindness  be  carried  in  them  like  the 
gathered  rain  in  the  crystal  cup.  But  as  a 
wooden  bucket  dripping  from  sweet  spark- 
ling springs  hath  more  beauty  than  the 
crystalline  flagon  filled  with  befouled  stag- 
nation, so  an  ill-featured  face  filled  with 
284 


Beauty. 

kindness  hath  a  beauty  which  an  admirable 
cast  of  features  filled  with  avarice  hath  not. 

I  would  not  put  kindness  absolutely  first 
for  the  making  of  beauty  as  I  have  said, 
since  every  virtue  is  an  artificer  of  it;  but 
Emerson  ventures  more.  He  says,  "  There 
is  no  beautifier  of  complexion  or  form  or 
behavior  like  the  wish  to  scatter  joy,  and 
not  pain,  around  us."  And  surely,  if  the 
virtues  be  conceived  as  angels  exercising 
and  modeling  the  features  and  muscles 
into  harmonies  and  lovely  shapes,  it  is 
not  too  much  to  call  kindness  the  master- 
workman  and  overseer  of  them.  Says 
George  Eliot,  and  with  all  my  soul  I  go 
with  her,  making  italics  of  the  words  which 
I  conceive  she  would  emphasize,  "  My  own 
experience  and  development  deepen  every 
day  my  conviction  that  our  moral  progress 
may  be  measured  by  the  degree  in  which 
we  sympathize  with  individual  suffering 
and  individual  joy."  Verily  it  is  the  truth 
that  any  one  may  be  beautiful  who  will; 
for  this  virtue  of  kindness  continually  is 
urged  on  us  within  and  without,  nursed 
with  kind  deeds.  Therefore  it  is  to  be 
achieved.  And  then  comes  beauty. 

I  have  in  the  mind's  sight — 'tis  one  of  the 

pictures    hung    in    my  courts — a   girl   the 

sight  of  whom  I  enjoyed  rapturously  on  an 

occasion.      She  was   not  matched  well  in 

285 


Beauty. 

features,  no,  nor  in  the  members  of  her 
form,  and  it  was  a  common  remark,  "How 
plain  she  is."  And  I  said  so  too,  for  I 
was  as  unperceiving  as  the  others.  But 
one  day  I  had  been  talking  with  her,  and 
at  the  farewell  she  came  with  me  kindly  to 
the  door.  The  sun  in  the  west,  an  hour 
high,  came  half  slant-wise  over  the  lintel, 
sifted  and  quivering  through  a  tree  at  the 
veranda  corner,  hanging  a  singular  web 
of  light  around  her.  As  she  stood  in  that 
array  briefly,  listening  to  me,  her  eyes 
were  downcast  attentively,  and  her  face 
and  form  so  were  filled  with  gentleness, 
meekness,  simplicity,  thoughtfulness,  that 
suddenly  her  beauty  broke  on  me.  My 
soul  did  her  reverence  and  said  in  me, 
"  What  a  picture!  How  can  any  one  call 
her  plain!  Good  sooth,  she  is  wondrous 
lovely!"  Another  like  sight  of  exceeding 
fairness  had  I  in  a  young  mother,  who,  in 
truth,  save  a  pair  of  soft  eyes,  was  very 
ungraciously  ill-featured.  Many  said, 
"What  drew  her  husband?"  But  one 
day  I  saw  her  with  some  children,  and 
when  she  looked  up  from  them,  there  was 
a  smile  so  celestial  and  such  a  light  of 
kindness,  love,  sincerity,  thought,  in  her 
face,  that  fairly  I  started  with  the  beauty 
there  shining,  and  conceived  easily  that 
any  one  might  love  her  devoutly. 
286 


Beauty. 

I  said,  in  beginning  this  chapter,  that 
this  kindness-made  beauty  had  bred  an  in- 
cident for  me  which  had  set  me  up  a  pic- 
ture forever,  both  odd  and  very  lovely,  in 
the  halls  of  my  mental  habitation.  And  I 
am  reminded  besides  of  another  one,  a  little 
interchange  with  my  Sister,  but  one  I  for- 
get not.  She  told  me  awhile  ago,  with  a 
strange  peculiar  look,  common,  I  conceive, 
to  women,  that  she  was  fading.  (AM 
ye  little  cares,  observations,  anxieties,, 
regrets  of  women,  and  of  the  best  women,, 
let  others  call  you  "  vanities  "  if  they  wilL 
I  like  you.  Ye  touch  me.)  "No, "said  I,, 
somewhat  shocked,  and  scanning  atten- 
tively her  sweet  face.  She  showed  me 
that  angles,  furtively  and  peepingly,  if  so 
I  may  say,  and  hiding  in  some  lights,  as  if 
ashamed  to  be  there,  yet  beyond  peradven- 
ture,  were  breaking  into  the  lines  of  her 
features,  and  the  smooth  round  surfaces 
were  becoming  (albeit  hoveringly  and 
evanescently,  "like  dove's-neck  lustres") 
a  joinery  of  squares  like  a  mosaic.  This  she 
averred  was  the  effect  of  time  and  growth 
on  the  soft  contours  of  the  face.  "Yes,, 
my  dear,"  she  said  gaily,  "it  is  certain 
that  what  thou  hast  been  pleased  to  call 
my  beauty  in  days  past,  is  fading.  And 
surely  it  is  time.  We  are  not  so  young  as. 
we  were,  Brother.  One  can  not  have 
287 


Beauty. 

dignity-years  of  labor  and  then  peace- 
years  of  home-life  like  ours,  without  their 
counting  as  years,  my  dear." 

"  Ah!  "  said  I,  "  avaunt  with  thy  squares 
and  angles  " — but  with  a  tear  in  my  eye. 
"The  truth  is,  thy  sweet  soul  has  been 
doing  some  carving  on  thee,  being  not 
content  with  even  thy  loveliness  as  it  was, 
but  would  have  it  more  like  herself.  Thou 
never  hadst  such  beauty  as  at  this  moment, 
my  Dozen,  and  thou  wilt  have  more  yet. 
Years,  sayest  thou?  Thou  art  pushing 
out  youth  with  perpetual  youth,  which  is 
to  say,  Time  with  Eternity." 

The  fair  youth  of  my  Sister  was  no  more 
than  a  promise  that  she  should  come  easily 
to  a  greater  beauty.  It  was  like  the  first 
chapter  of  a  beautiful  book,  a  lovely  peace- 
iul  promise  of  a  wealth  of  beauty  further 
on,  though  it  must  be  woven  with  marks 
of  storms,  passions,  pains,  joys  almost  like 
pains,  and  deep  devotions. 

But  to  that  incident  of  which  I  have 
spoken;  it  happened  in  this  wise: 

One  evening — it  was  not  long  after 
Marian's  words  about  her  fading,  which 
still  were  lingering  with  a  strange  yearning 
in  my  heart  —  a  half-hour  before  tea  time 
we  came  in  from  garden-work,  and,  after 
a  draught  of  cool  water  and  laving  with 
warm  water,  I  seated  me  in  a  large  chair 
288 


Beauty. 

in  our  study;  and  Marian,  looking  like  a 
dewed  blush-rose,  quietly  brought  a  low 
ottoman  to  my  feet  and  took  her  place  on 
it  with  her  guitar.  Rain  had  begun  to 
fall,  with  no  wind,  or  only  the  gentlest 
breath  at  moments.  Very  cheerful  and 
sweet  was  the  music  from  the  shrubbery 
and  the  veranda  roof.  I  knew  my  Dozen 
would  tune  her  music  in  full  accord  with  it, 
and  prepared  me  to  enjoy  delightfully. 
Usually  she  played  awhile  before  joining 
her  voice  with  it  (which  often  indeed  she 
did  not  at  all  unless  at  my  request),  but 
this  evening,  with  a  few  sweeping  chords 
and  a  delicate  short  prelude  she  began  to 
sing  at  once.  Now,  no  sooner  had  a  few 
notes  come  forth  than  the  linnet,  which 
had  retired  to  his  cage  and  roost  for  the 
night,  was  agitated,  and  showed  every 
sign  of  excitement,  and  soon  came  from 
the  cage,  flew  to  Marian,  perched  on  her 
shoulder  and  so  stayed,  palpably  vibrating 
to  the  music  till  the  song  ceased.  Then 
his  little  throat  swelled  and  he  opened  his 
beak  and  poured  forth  such  a  song  as 
surely  must  have  burst  him  if  it  had  had 
no  exit. 

"He  knows  the  song,"  said  Dozen, 
rapturously,  taking  the  bird  in  her  hand 
with  caresses,  "  he  remembers  the  song  I 
sang,  Brother." 

289 


Beauty. 

"The  bird  knows  much  better  than  I 
do,"  said  I.  "  What  is  thy  song?  I  never 
heard  thee  sing  it  before." 

11 1  have  not  had  it  before,"  said  Marian, 
"the  words,  I  mean;  I  set  them  to  the 
melody  this  morning.  It  is  an  old  Anda- 
lusian  love-song,  a  folk-melody,  which 
Margarita  loved.  She  sang  it  often  to  me 
in  Spanish;  and  one  day  she  told  me  the 
meaning  of  the  words,  translating  them 
one  by  one,  and  I  wrote  them  down. 
Margarita  said  softly  that  the  song  showed 
there  were  good  lovers  in  her  country. 
Since  my  gentle  teacher  died,  the  mel- 
ody has  been  haunting  my  memory.  This 
morning  I  took  Margarita's  translation  and 
Englished  it  in  the  rhythm  of  the  music." 

With  this,  at  my  request,  while  I  listened 
more  critically,  Sister  sang  me  the  song 
again,  thus: 

My  sweet  dear  love, 

Who  fillest  me  with  joy, 
Of  all  the  joys  I  have  of  thee 
What  is  the  joy  thou  givest  me 

That  will  my  song  employ 

All  other  joys  above? 

Is  it  that  I  love, 

Lifting  my  heart  to  thee, 
And  each  night  fall  from  thee  asleep, 
Awake  to  thee,  and  love's  watch  keep 

All  day?  Nay,  not  to  me 

Is  this  all  joys  above. 
290 


Beauty. 

That  thou  dost  love, 

Stooping  thy  heart  to  me  — 
With  thy  sweet  life  dost  gird  me  round, 
And  tenderly  my  being  sound 

With  thine?  No,  not  to  me 

Is  this  all  joys  above. 

My  dear,  dear  love, 

That  I  thy  beauty  see, 
That  I  behold  thy  sweetness  so,  — 
So  true,  so  high,  so  heavenly  know 

Thy  soul  —  this  giveth  me 

My  joy  all  joys  above. 

"  Oh  that  I  had  a  voice,  a  real  voice!" 
said  my  Dozen,  with  a  sigh,  when  she  had 
finished  the  lovely  lay. 

"  Thou  hast  a  most  engaging,  beautiful 
voice,"  said  I. 

"Brother,"  said  Sister,  "I  expect  truth 
of  thee." 

"  It  is  the  most  heartfelt  truth,"  said  I, 
"  and  scientific  too.  The  voice  is  like  the 
face,  or  aught  other  sensible  thing:  'tis  not 
needful  that  it  should  be  mechanically  per- 
fect that  it  may  be  beautiful,  but  only  beau- 
tiful in  what  it  conveys.  'Tis  true,  dear 
Marian,  that  thy  voice  has  not  a  fine  musi- 
cal timbre\  there  is  I-know-not-what  lack  in 
thy  throat.  Notwithstanding,  truly  thy 
voice  is  beautiful,  and  always  I  both  am 
delighted  and  am  moved  by  thy  singing, 
for  it  hath  thy  kind  and  sweet  soul  and  thy 
very  truth  in  the  voice  of  it.  I  must  tell 
291 


Beauty. 

thee  what  our  friend,  Franklin  Hughes 
said  to  me  but  yesterday  when  I  met  him 
in  the  city  —  which  indeed  very  blame- 
worthily  I  have  forgotten  to  mention  to  thee 
till  this  moment.  I  asked  him  of  Miss 
Leigh  —  thou  wilt  remember  —  whom  he 
had  let  go  from  his  quartet.  '  I  thought 
she  had  a  good  voice/  said  I.  Franklin 
answered  that  she  had  a  good  vocal  mech- 
anism but  could  not  sing.  '  You  mean  she 
has  no  knowledge  of  music,'  said  I.  'No,' 
said  Franklin,  '  I  mean  she  has  a  bad  dis- 
position and  spiteful  temper.'  i  Is  sing- 
ing, then  a  moral  performance?'  said  I, 
surprised.  'Assuredly  it  is,'  Franklin 
answered;  'the  least  spite  in  the  heart  at 
the  moment  will  pervert  the  finest  voice, 
and  execution  too.  So  will  a  settled  un- 
kindness,  jealousy,  envy,  moroseness.  No 
unkind  person  can  sing  very  beautifully.' 
'  But  if  thus  unkindness  will  undo  a  voice, 
will  kindness  make  one?'  I  asked.  'In  a 
manner  it  will,'  said  Franklin;  'I  mean  it 
will  give  one  to  sing  acceptably  with  no 
great  quality  of  organ.  A  tender,  sweet, 
devout  soul,'  said  he,  'will  fill  a  song  with 
music  and  move  the  hearer  deeply  without 
gifts  of  tone.'  Ah!  yes,  I  have  delight  in 
thy  singing,  my  Sister.  Thy  voice  hath  a 
psalm  in  its  sound.  Praise  and  love  meet 
.  in  it.  Not  the  least,  but  rather  the  greatest, 
292 


Beauty. 

boon  of  thy  new  art  —  thy  guitar,  I  mean  — 
is  that  I  have  thy  voice  with  it.  For- 
merly thou  didst  no  more  than  warble  and 
chirrup  sometimes  at  thy  work,  but  now 
thou  singest  songs  to  me  delightfully." 

Here  arose  suddenly  a  great  stir  and 
whir,  as  of  a  merry  exercise,  in  the  dining 
room,  a  very  lively  leaping  and  scamper- 
ing. "Fun  and  Linnet,"  said  my  Dozen, 
laughing,  and  running  to  the  door;  where 
meanwhile  the  frolic  had  fallen  suddenly 
to  a  perfect  stillness. 

"Come  hither,  Brother,"  called  my  Sis- 
ter, delightedly,  "thou  shouldst  see  the 
rogues." 

Going  quickly,  I  saw  an  odd  spectacle 
indeed.  Fun  was  on  the  floor,  with  her 
fore-quarters  crouched  and  her  head 
stretched  out  between  her  paws,  her  hinder 
parts  raised,  full  of  action  and  ready  for  a 
leap.  On  the  dog's  head  stood  the  bird, 
cocking  himself  nonchalantly,  looking  very 
triumphant.  Here  all  together  was  the 
tableau  vivant  I  have  mentioned,  odd  and 
very  fair.  Nature  might  have  dubbed  it 
"A  Study  in  Kindness,"  for  kindness  was 
the  light  of  it.  My  Sister's  kind  look  and 
beaming  countenance,  her  lissom  form  and 
the  attitude  in  which  her  eager  movement 
had  been  stopped,  the  postures  of  the  dog 
and  bird  too,  the  saucy  kindness  of 
293 


Beauty. 

Linnet's  air  and  the  admirable  expression 
that  filled  the  shaggy  kind  eyes  and  wrink- 
led the  nose  of  Fun,  made  a  composition  not 
to  be  forgotten.  Suddenly  the  bird  threw 
his  little  weight  forward  and  delivered 
an  excellent  peck  on  the  dog's  nose.  Fun 
leaped  up  with  a  growl  and  the  romping 
game  began  again.  'Twas  all  a  very  fine 
picture  for  the  wall  of  the  chamber  within 
me  wherein  most  I  must  live. 

It  is  fit  that  I  record,  as  no  little  thing, 
but  rather  as  I  would  write  of  any  love,  the 
love  of  the  linnet  for  my  Sister  and  for 
Fun.  The  bird  is  very  respectful  and 
pleasant  to  me,  but  it  is  plain  that  he  gives 
his  heart  entirely  to  Marian  and  the  dog. 
Sooth,  he  makes  this  very  plain  indeed. 
He  has  no  thought  of  that  politeness  which, 
as  says  a  Frenchman,  consists  in  pains  to 
prevent  the  several  persons  of  a  company 
from  observing  that  you  prefer  one  of 
them.  He  lavishes  his  quaint  caresses 
and  frolics  on  my  Dozen  and  on  Fun  per- 
petually. The  romps  of  the  dog  and  bird 
are  delightful;  charming  is  the  pleasure 
they  have  in  each  other.  And  sometimes 
when  the  rustle  and  clatter  of  one  of  their 
games  is  stilled,  I  have  come  on  them 
resting  together,  the  dog  stretched  out  on 
her  side  and  the  bird  half  hidden  in  the 
long  silky  hair  of  her  throat,  Fun's  eyes 
294 


Beauty. 


closed,  perhaps  asleep,  but  Linnet  looking 
out  saucily,  as  who  should  say,  "Disturb 
me  if  you  dare." 


295 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 


XXVII. 

Growth,  moral  and  physical,  is  slow; 
destruction  is  swift.  Life  and  beauty  are 
long  a-making,  but  death  or  disfigurement 
may  do  its  all  in  an  instant.  A  flaming 
fury  an  hour  long  will  make  a  black  heap 
of  a  century  of  buildings.  A  master,  with 
years  of  study  that  his  soul  may  be  charged 
full  of  his  art,  and  thereupon  with  more 
years  mayhap  of  dreaming  for  one  work  of 
his  art,  and  thereafter  with  innumerable 
days  of  labor  and  prayers  and  faith,  may 
bring  to  pass  a  great  canvas  of  color  and 
form,  a  vast  thought  in  a  picture;  and  an 
imp  with  a  knife  may  make  tatters  of  it 
with  the  freedom  of  a  few  slashes.  Nor 
could  the  master  rear  his  creation  at  all  if 
the  imp  were  by  him  continually  with  the 
knife.  I  know  not  how  slow  and  long  the 
currents  are  which  secrete  a  diamond;  but 
I  have  seen  the  gem  inflamed  into  gas  in 
an  instant.  Truly,  a  moment  of  the  wan- 
tonness of  violence  has  power  to  overthrow 
what  years  of  the  piety  of  labor  have  up- 
reared. 

296 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 

So  may  one  unkindness  overweigh,  out- 
run and  undo  the  effect  of  many  good- 
offices,  yes,  even  of  many  years  of  favor- 
ing acts. 

Now  having  observed  this  fact  often,  I 
could  not  but  fall  to  thinking  whether  it 
were  wholly,  or  in  the  main,  or  sometimes- 
even  in  any  manner,  unamiable.  For  very 
like  it  is  said  by  us,  rough  and  ready  and 
exclaiming  our  first  thought,  that  to  receive 
many  apparent  kindnesses  and  then  to 
count  them  for  nothing  and  say  they  all 
are  undone  because  we  have  received 
thereafter  one  unkindness  from  the  same 
hand,  is  but  the  wantonness  and  vanity  of 
an  ingrate.  And  so  indeed  it  may  be — 
there  are  ingrates,  and  sad  creatures  they 
are;  but  so  also  I  am  very  sure  it  may  not 
be.  There  is  a  power  and  a  law  in  un- 
kindness that  it  may  undo  in  an  instant 
what  the  pleasant  offices  long  have  beeu 
effecting.  And  if  this  seem  a  terrible  law,  , 
a  frightful  tooth  that  unkindness  has,  it  is 
right  enough  that  unkindness  should  be  a 
terrible  thing. 

For  this  power  of  unkindness,  that  it 
may  overthrow  suddenly  the  works  of 
many  and  long  fair-looking  favors,  I  have 
perceived  some  strong  reasons,  as  follows: 

i.      The  general  truth  with  which  I  have 
begun  this  chapter  has  bearing.      Kindness 
297 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 

hardly  can  build  so  mightily  but  that  a 
strong  unkindness  may  hurl  it  down  and 
make  a  crash  and  ruin  of  it,  because  to 
destroy  is  so  much  easier  than  to  build, 
and  one  stroke  is  enough  if  it  be  hardy 
enough,  like  a  launch  of  lightning. 

2.  Pleasant  good  offices,  however  very 
pleasant   and  very  long  applied,  may  not 
be    kindness    in    good    truth,    but    only    a 
quality  of  leisure,  a  mere  ease,  a  manner  of 
indulgent   and    pliant  humor  met  with   a 
fortunate  hap   of   opportunity,  a  liking  to 
keep    things    agreeable,   still   and   smooth 
about  one.     But  this  is  not  kindness,  for 
kindness  has  a  mixture  of  firm  principle  in 
it;  nor  is  it  love,  but  rather  a  self-consider- 
ing.    Therefore  if  an  unkindness  be  done, 
it  may  be  such  a  malice  or  unfeelingness 
as  instantly  shows  there  was  no  real  love 
or  devotion  in  all  the  foregoing  pleasant 
offices.     Whereupon  they  are  undone  and 
count  for  but  their  worth,  not  because  of 
an  ungrateful  forgetting  of  them,  but  be- 
cause   they   wore   a   mask    and    now   are 
stripped. 

3.  Indulgent  disposition  is  general,  by 
its  nature,  spread  forth  toward  every  one, 
though  more  intent  on  the  more  favored  or 
on  those  near  by.     But  unkindness,  con- 
trariwise, is  like  to  be,  or  at  least  to  seem, 
Very  special,  direct,   individual,   and  more 

298 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 

directly  applied  to  us  than  the  good  offices 
which  spread  farther.  Hence  the  good 
which  seems  general  tends  to  be  made  of 
no  effect  by  the  ill  turn  which  so  sharply 
is  individual. 

4.  Kindnesses,  I  mean  good  and  pleas- 
ant offices  done  us,  may  have  many  motives. 
It  \s  possible  to  think  of  them  as  cajoleries, 
traps,    compliments,  decoys,  solicitations, 
done  to  us  but  really  not  for  us.     But  un- 
kindness  can  have  but  one  source,  which 
is  lack  of  due  love,   and  is  very  definite; 
nor    can   mean    anything    but   just   itself, 
namely,  that  the  heart  has  failed,  which  is 
to  say  that  never  it  was  deep  toward  us  as 
it  seemed    to  be.     Therefore   the  definite 
meaning    of    unkindness    may   undo    the 
effects    of   previous    good  offices,   because 
these  are  overshadowed  with  suspicion  by 
the  unkindness;  and  if  the  unkindness  be 
faithless  and  treacherous  in  nature,  it  will 
do  so  perforce.     For  treachery  is  a  terrible 
thing. 

5.  An  unkindness  may  include  a  very 
agonizing  and  shameful  unrespect  or  dis- 
respect.    Now  not  only  is  such  disrespect 
a  very  hard  thing  to  bear  and  one  of  the 
sorest  wounds  that  can  be  done  on  us,  but 
the  disrespect  would  be  impossible  if  the 
foregoing  good  offices  had  been  kindness 
in    truth,    which  is  principle  and   love,    a 

299 


Grieving:  the  Spirit. 

reverence  and  seriousness  of  loving  duty. 
Thus  the  unkindness  which  has  any  touch 
of  presumption  or  impudence  in  it,  throws 
back  a  long  black  shadow  of  doubt  on  the 
forego.ing  apparent  kindnesses;  and  if  it 
be  very  impudent,  it  may  undo  them  al- 
together. 

6.  An  unkindness  is  a  wound  in  the 
heart;  and  I  know  not  why  it  may  not  be 
fatal  like  a  wound  in  the  body.  If  one 
have  dressed  and  fed  and  lodged  and 
caressed  a  friend's  body  never  so  long  nor 
so  well,  if  then  he  drive  a  knife  through 
the  heart,  it  is  all  over.  And  how  if  he 
cut  through  a  love  and  rend  the  quick  and 
the  life  of  it?  Will  a  mortal  blow  not  be 
mortal  because  of  fondnesses  before  it? 
How  is  it  to  be  escaped  that  a  wound  in 
the  heart,  if  it  be  cruel  enough,  may  be 
mortal?  And  even  if  not  mortal,  it  may  be 
incurable,  as  a  blow  may  disfigure  the 
body  forever.  Oh!  the  truth  of  this  truth, 
the  sad  truth  of  it,  that  an  honest,  dear  and 
sweet  love  may  be  killed!  or  if  not  mor- 
tally struck,  yet  scarred  forever!  Says 
Thackeray  in  that  very  wonderful  book  of 
his,  "  Henry  Esmond,"  "  You  do  not  know 
how  much  you  suffer  in  those  critical  mal- 
adies of  the  heart,  until  the  disease  is  over 
and  you  look  back  on  it  afterwards.  Dur- 
ing the  time  the  suffering  is  at  least  suffer- 
300 


Grieving:  the  Spirit. 

able.  The  day  passes  in  more  or  less  of 
pain,  and  the  night  wears  away  somehow. 
*  *  *  O  dark  months  of  grief  and  rage!  of 
wrong  and  cruel  endurance!  He  is  old 
now  who  recalls  you.  Long  ago  he  has 
forgiven  and  blessed  the  soft  hand  that 
wounded  him;  but  the  mark  is  there,  and 
the  wound  is  cicatrized  only — no  time, 
tears,  caresses  or  repentance  can  obliterate 
the  scar." 

7.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  there  is  a  law 
of  evanescence  in  physical  pain.  I  mean 
it  can  not  be  retained  in  memory.  The 
occasion  of  it,  the  scene,  accessories,  these 
may  be  recalled  very  well,  but  the  pain 
itself  is  not  to  be  lived  again  in  imagin- 
ation; the  tortures  can  not  be  felt  in  mind 
when  they  have  ceased  in  body.  It  is  the 
nature  and  blessed  law  of  physical  suffer- 
ing that  it  expends  itself  utterly  at  the 
moment,  and  there  is  no  more  it  can  do, 
and  no  continuing  of  it  in  pangs  of  con- 
ception. But  heart-hurts  are  hurts  of  the 
center  where  conception  lives.  Heart- 
hurts  bruise  the  very  quick  of  feeling 
itself  —  hence  may  be  unending.  And 
especially  is  this  so  of  unkindnesses  which 
are  disrespects,  indignities,  intrusive  in- 
solences or  wanton  presumptions  —  the 
severest  of  all  wounds  of  the  soul,  — r 
though  treacheries  are  to  be  added  as  very 

301 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 

close  upon  them.  These  hurts  are  lived 
over  and  over  in  memory  with  all  their 
first  force  of  pain  —  nay,  often  more,  be- 
cause reflection  on  them  and  slow  penetra- 
tion reveal  their  gross  nature  very  fatally. 
They  will  be  keener  pangs  of  heart  as  they 
become  closer  acquaintances  of  the  judg- 
ment. Therefore  unkindnesses  have  a  sad 
power  to  undo  the  effects  of  many  pleasant 
offices  which  have  seemed  very  kind,  be- 
cause the  unkindness  not  only  is  a  wound 
of  heart  and  may  have  any  effect  from  a 
pang  to  killing,  but  if  it  be  a  hard  wound  it 
is  like  not  to  grow  better,  but  worse,  and 
not  to  ache  less,  but  more,  with  time.  For 
this  may  be  the  effect  of  judgment  and 
the  slow  penetration  of  a  fatal  truth  which 
was  too  shocking  and  benumbing  to  be 
conceived  truly  at  first. 

8.  There  is  no  so  sweet  other  result  of 
kindness  and  love  as  trust.  The  rest, 
peace,  repose  of  spirit  in  a  friend,  the  en- 
tire confidence,  that  would  go  anywhere 
with  him  blindfolded  and  take  his  eyes  for 
our  own,  is  a  heavenly  chamber  unto  us. 
But  one  unkindness,  if  it  be  of  the  more 
fatal  manner  of  it,  like  a  treachery,  a 
very  deep  selfishness,  or  a  gross  impudence 
which  shows  that  no  reverence  hath 
builded  under  the  shows  of  love,  or  a 
wanton  measure  of  vanity  which  hath  a 
302 


Qrieving  the  Spirit. 

pleasure  to  sit  like  a  high  judge  over 
a  friend,  this  will  stab  in  an  instant,  with 
a  shocking  astonishment,  to  the  very  heart 
of  a  trust  which  sundry  favoring  things 
have  been  rearing  up.  Sorrowful  is  it 
when  one  who  has  had  a  dear  esteem  of 
another's  heart  as  a  friend,  gets  a  key  to  a 
Bluebeard  chamber  in  it,  or  to  a  miser's  den 
in  it,  or  to  a  secret  cellar  of  plots,  or  to 
a  gilt  and  white,  glittering,  cold  gallery 
of  vanity-pictures,  wherein  we  get  locked, 
awhile  and  forgotten  almost  to  starvation. 
And  thereafter  the  place  is  hateful,  what- 
ever be  the  fair  architecture  of  the  outside 
of  it,  or  the  other  chambers  of  it  which 
afford  some  comforts. 

I  have  observed  these  eight  reasons, 
now,  — some  of  which  may  be  but  different 
appearances  of  the  same  thing,  like  the 
varied  faces  of  a  crystal  —  why  one  un- 
kindness  may  undo  many  foregoing  favors 
and  grieve  the  spirit  forever,  —  to  wit,  that 
in  general  destruction  is  swifter  than  build- 
ing up;  that  obliging  acts  may  not  be  real 
principle  and  heart,  but  only  indolent  ease 
and  indulgence;  that  a  favoring  and  easy 
disposition  which  has  the  look  of  kindness, 
is  general  and  spreads  abroad,  but  unkind- 
ness  is  a  sharp  personal  blow;  that  ap- 
parent kindnesses  may  have  a  selfish  motive 
and  aim  in  them,  whereas  unkindness  is 
303 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 

-very  definite  and  can  mean  nothing  but 
itself;  that  an  unkindness  may  be  after  the 
manner  of  a  gross  impudence,  which  is  a 
terrible  wound  in  itself  and  also  throws  a 
.doubt  on  all  foregoing  good  offices — 
what  truly  they  are;  that  heart-wounds 
have  a  possible  fatality  like  body  wounds, 
and  one  may  suffice;  that  hurts  of  heart 
affect  perforce  the  memory  and  often  in- 
tensify by  the  slow  culmination  of  judg- 
ment; that  trust,  the  sweetest  of  all  effects 
of  love,  and  again  the  most  nourishing  of 
that  love,  may  be  destroyed  by  the  logic  of 
one  bad  act. 

To  these  there  is  now  a  ninth  reason  to 
be  added,  which  is  a  fine  and  delicate  un- 
.derstanding  of  love,  namely,  that  love 
requires  a  perfectness  or  completing  of 
truth  and  kindness,  and  nothing  is  com- 
pleted which  has  come  to  a  stop.  And  no 
matter  how  far  it  has  been  builded,  if  it 
:stop  uncompleted,  it  hath  failed,  and  is 
.only  a  portion  of  the  natural  body  of  itself, 
and  can  have  no  right  to  its  full  name.  In 
love  the  fine  and  precious  thing  is  not  this 
kind  favor,  nor  that,  nor  any  host  of  them 
.together,  but  the  fervent,  tender  and  loving 
.edification  of  a  heart  toward  us;  in  brief, 
perfectness;  the  proof  of  which  greatness, 
or  full  station  of  it,  arrives  only  with  the 
last  moment,  if  so  I  may  say,  with  the  com- 
304 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 

pleted  thing.  And  one  unkindness,  if  it  be 
special  and  harsh,  may  be  in  effect  a  stop 
of  the  love  toward  us,  leaving  it  unfinished, 
and  show  all  the  foregoing  pleasant  and 
seeming-kind  deeds  to  be  not  from  a  perfect 
state  of  heart  toward  us,  not  from  a  hum- 
ble, reverent,  pure,  devout  love,  but  from 
some  quality  which  hath  halted  short  of  the 
worth  and  virtue  of  fulness.  There  is  an 
eastern  fable  which  utters  well  this  truth: 
If  a  man  set  forth  to  build  a  mountain  and 
has  poured  but  one  basket  of  earth  on  a 
plain,  he  is  building  a  mountain;  but  if 
there  lack  one  basketful  at  the  top,  and  he 
fail  to  carry  it  up,  he  has  not  builded  the 
mountain.  To  the  same  purpose  were  the 
dying  words  of  the  Cid,  when  "King 
Bucar  with  seven  and  thirty  kings  whom 
he  brought  with  him,  and  a  great  power  of 
Moors,"  was  coming  to  besiege  Valencia. 
The  Cid  was  hero  of  a  thousand  victories, 
and  no  man  had  stood  against  him  in  his 
life;  yet  he  feared  to  be  overcome  with  im- 
perfectness  if  even  his  body  after  death 
were  vanquished  or  handled  by  enemies. 
So  "the  Cid  Ruydiez  stood  up  and  made 
a  full  noble  preaching,  showing  that  no 
man  whatsoever,  however  honorable  or 
fortunate  they  may  be  in  this  world,  can 
escape  death;  to  which,  said  he,  I  am  now 
full  near;  and  since  ye  know  that  this  body 
305 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 

of  mine  hath  never  yet  been  conquered,  nor 
put  to  shame,  I  beseech  ye  let  not  this 
befall  it  at  the  end,  for  the  good  fortune  of 
man  is  accomplished  only  'at  his  end." 

But  now  I  have  to  say  that  although  this 
power  of  one  unkindness  is  real  and  fatal, 
and  often  is  the  fact  and  history  in  an 
overthrow  of  love,  yet  very  often  too  it  is 
only  apparent;  for  what  seems  like  one  ill 
turn  is  in  fact  a  vast  troop  of  them  —  in- 
deed all  that  ever  were  done.  This  comes 
of  a  deep  law  affecting  the  delicate  and 
precious  mystery  of  love,  the  law,  as  I  may 
call  it,  of  insensible  accumulation.  I  mean, 
it  is  a  great  and  lovely  quality  of  the 
heart  that  it  may  swallow  up  many  unkind- 
nesses  and  love  on;  but  also  it  is  a  terrible 
and  perilous  nature  of  the  heart  that  the 
injuries,  unfaithfulnesses,  selfishnesses,  un- 
kindnesses  which  are  swallowed  up  and 
disappear,  are  not  destroyed.  They  be- 
come not  as  nothing.  They  have  a  life  in 
the  fearful  "round  towers"  of  memory. 
There  they  will  accumulate,  and  the 
heart,  which  likes  not  to  visit  those  tow- 
ers, may  know  it  not.  Each  hurt,  as  it 
goes  in,  may  seem  to  drop  into  naught, 
but  it  falls  in  fact  on  a  heap  and  makes  one 
more  in  it.  Then  when  is  done  the  very 
hard  unkindness,  that  which  for  some 
reason,  either  by  treachery  or  impudence 
306 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 


or  particular  harshness,  is  excessive,  this 
works  the  evil  not  by  its  own  force  alone. 
Nay,  if  it  were  the  first  or  tenth,  or  one 
hundreth  mayhap,  even  that  grossness 
might  be  swallowed  away  into  darkness,  as 
others  have  been.  But  it  undoes  the  bars 
of  the  "round  towers;"  out  troop  all  the 
imprisoned  unkindnesses,  and  do  a  fatal 
havoc.  In  plain  speech,  one  last  cruel 
unkindness  may  call  into  action  again  the 
host  of  previous  injuries  that  seemed 
buried  and  gone;  and  the  ravage  is  done 
not  by  the  last  one  but  by  them  all.  I  may 
illustrate  this  law  by  the  sea  and  its  waves 
dashing  up  on  a  shore.  However  wave 
after  wave  wash  over  me  and  recede,  it  is 
nothing;  I  am  left  as  before.  But  if  a 
violent  surge  breaking  on  me,  sweep  me 
out  into  the  deep  where  they  all  are,  I 
drown  in  them.  Or  again  I  may  liken  the 
thought  to  a  wilderness  where  wild  crea- 
tures rage,  surrounding  a  pleasant  dwelling. 
Every  unkindness  that  may  get  in  is  chased 
forth  from  the  dwelling  into  this  wilder- 
ness, to  its  place  among  furious  beings. 
But  if  in  struggling  with  one  bold  wolf  of 
unkindness  which  will  not  out  easily,  I  be 
rapt  away  with  it  to  the  wilds,  I  am  fallen 
on  by  the  whole  pack  and  devoured. 

Nay,   it   is  not  even  necessary  that  the 
last    unkindness   which    unlooses    all    the 
307 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 

others  before  done,  or  (mayhap  it  is  more 
exact  to  say)  makes  the  long,  sad,  invisi- 
ble strain  of  them  apparent  by  adding  the 
last  weight  up  to  the  breaking-point — it  is 
not  necessary,  I  say,  that  this  be  a  peculiar 
harshness  or  some  gross  thing  like  treach- 
ery or  impudence.  Simply  it  may  be 
the  one  blow  too  many,  though  a  slight 
one,  the  once  too  often,  though  a  small  oc- 
casion. The  thousand-and-first  stroke,  no 
matter  though  it  be  no  more  than  just  the 
common  blow,  may  have  effect  with  the 
power  of  all  the  thousand  together;  for  it 
is  the  one  blow  too  many.  Withheld,  the 
other  thousand  will  be  carried;  but  with 
the  one  too  many,  there  is  effect  from  them 
all,  and  the  heart  breaks  suddenly.  Very 
sad  and  critical  too  is  it,  in  this  law  of  the 
delicacies  and  dangers  of  love,  that  neither 
:the  one  who  gives  the  blows  nor  the  one 
who  takes  them,  can  discern,  nay,  nor 
guess  never  so  little,  how  near  the  end  is, 
how  impending  the  one  time  too  many. 
I  may  illustrate  by  a  magnet  of  unknown 
strength.  To  the  armature  a  weight  is 
hung.  No  effect  is  visible.  Yet  nothing 
is  more  sure  than  that  the  whole  effect  is 
had,  but  is  carried.  Increase  now  the 
weight  by  small  increments,  nay,  by  but 
the  weights  of  hairs,  and  at  some  moment, 
while  yet  there  is  no  visibility  of  effect,  the 
808 


Grieving  the  Spirit. 

point  has  come  when  another  hair  is  too 
much,  and  the  armature  falls,  overweighted. 
It  is  true  this  figure  compares  spiritual 
things  with  mechanical;  and  I  know  well 
the  soul  is  a  living  body  which  can  re- 
cover of  wounds  perfectly  so  that  there  is 
left  not  the  least  trace  of  them.  But  we 
recover  not  of  wounds  while  still  being 
struck  with  them.  There  is  an  analogy  in 
the  illustration  though  mechanical,  and  a 
solemn  law  of  the  heart's  life  is  imaged 
therein.  Oh!  the  once  too  often!  the  sad 
once  too  often!  How  many  times  hath  it 
foundered  a  good  bark  of  love,  which  first 
hath  labored  gallantly  with  freight  in  a 
stormy  sea. 

From  the  lingo  (for  his  Latin  is  little 
better)  of  the  youngest  Egometus,  some- 
times called  Verevidens,  I  will  transcribe 
here  Escanaba's  dream;  which,  in  what- 
ever vulgarity  of  diction,  it  were  well  if  all 
would  lay  to  heart.  Egometus  has  dressed 
it  up  with  many  fancies,  but  the  bare  par- 
ticulars will  suffice.  Escanaba  had  come 
in,  and  stood  looking  at  his  sleeping  wife. 
He  had  been  neglectful  that  day,  and  she 
had  said  naught;  and  unthankful,  but  she 
had  said  naught;  and  harsh  once — she  had 
said  naught.  And  now  she  lay  in  another 
silence,  sleep.  Half  angrily  he  said  to 
himself  that  she  seemed  not  so  affectionate 
309 


Grie/ing  the  Spirit. 

to  him  as  she  was  wont  to  be,  and  lay 
down  in  his  place.  He  fell  asleep  soon, 
but  instantly,  in  his  dream,  arose  from  the 
bed;  for  a  red  light  suddenly  filled  the 
room,  and  he  beheld  an  ugly  dwarf,  red- 
clad  from  liberty-cap  to  pointed  shoes,  and 
his  face  as  scarlet  as  his  tight  jerkin.  The 
gnome,  paying  no  heed  to  Escanaba,  went 
to  the  bed,  turned  down  the  coverings  and 
unloosed  the  breast  of  the  wife's  night- 
robe.  Then  plunging  his  red  hand  into  the 
mid-recess  of  the  gentle  bosom,  he  opened 
the  left  half  of  it  like  a  lid  and  pulled  forth 
the  heart,  the  while  a  chilled  and  waxen 
whitehess  spread  in  the  face  and  neck  of 
the  sleeping  woman.  The  gnome  placed 
the  heart  in  the  pan  of  a  balance  which  he 
held,  and  carefully  weighed  it.  "  Nearly 
full,"  croaked  he;  "light  yet,  by  a  hair; 
but  near!  Soon!  Once  more!  Once  more 
— 'twill  break!  Soon,  soon!  Ha!  ha!  " 
Then  with  a  chuckle,  grin,  and  horrid 
laugh,  he  replaced  the  heart,  shut  the 
bosom,  drew  the  robe  and  coverings,  and 
went  out  the  door,  the  red  light  following 
him.  The  frightened  man,  by  the  light  of 
the  returning  flush  of  the  face,  seeming 
like  a  faint  phosphorescence  by  which  he 
could  see  his  wife,  fell  on  his  knees  by  her 
and  vowed  his  life  away  if  he  gave  her  the 
one  hurt  too  many; — all  in  his  dream. 
310 


Sporting. 


XXVIII. 

Let  me  speak  for  those  who  can  not 
speak  for  themselves. 

Gentle  reader,  they  have  feelings  to  be 
"hurt,"  they  love,  they  hate,  they  suffer 
shame,  hope,  despair,  they  writhe  with  tor- 
tures of  body,  as  wrell  as  you. 

I  should  not  have  forgotten  to  give  them 
a  chapter  in  this  morn-made  book,  for  a 
dawn  in  June  is  not  lovelier  nor  in  October 
is  more  glistening  and  refreshing  than  is 
Fun's  greeting  to  me  of  a  morning.  Ah! 
good  little  being,  the  rapture  of  thy  ex- 
pression, the  ecstasy  of  thy  small  life,  tops 
the  morning  for  me  as  thou  knowest  not, 
when  I  come  to  seat  me  here  to  the  friend- 
ship of  my  pen.  But  why  say  I  thy  "small 
life?  "  Truly  I  know  not  how  large  it  is, 
nor  what  awaits  thee  in  the  "  many  man- 
sions." 

And  thy  friend  the  linnet  had  a  morning 
chirp  and  sometimes  a  fine  lay  for  me,  and 
happily  flew  to  me  sometimes,  setting  my 
heart  a-stir  with  j.oy  in  Creation. 

No,  I  should  not  have  forgotten  you,  ye 
311 


Sporting. 

speechless  of  words,  but  ye  rapturous 
ones  in  sounds  and  motions.  For  I  love 
you  well,  nor  ever  look  into  the  eye 
of  one  of  you  without  tender  wonder 
and  a  fervency  of  acknowledgment  of  your 
pathos.  Yet  this  chapter  has  a  special 
reason  or  cause  of  it,  a  sadness  and  loss, 
and  I  write  while  my  heart  is  still  very 
warm  with  it. 

It  happened  thus:  The  very  fine  morn- 
ing three  days  past,  warm,  with  temper- 
ance, bright,  with  a  veil,  and  breezy,  my 
Sister  was  at  work  in  our  garden,  with 
Linnet  and  Fun  near  as  usual.  For  the 
linnet  often  flew  out-doors,  and  always 
when  my  Sister  was  garden-working,  or 
lingering  out  in  fine  weather,  and  Fun 
was  inseparable  from  both.  The  kind 
and  radiant  little  dog  seemed  never  able  to 
admire  enough  her  winged  friend's  abilities 
in  the  air,  and  would  race  after  his  flights, 
barking  and  leaping  under  his  alighting 
places  with  ecstasy.  On  this  morning  the 
usual  delights  of  dog  and  bird  were  going 
on  in  the  shrubbery  and  especially  in  and 
under  a  small  cherry-tree  much  liked  by 
Linnet,  when  the  bird  suddenly  launched 
forth  for  a  clump  of  trees  in  the  farther 
corner  of  the  meadow  on  which  our  little 
garden  borders,  to  which  sometimes, 
though  rarely,  he  flew;  and  thither  after 
312 


Sporting. 

him  raced  Fun,  bounding  and  barking  as 
if  desirous  to  do  all  she  could  in  the  thin 
medium  in  which  her  little  friend  was  so 
agile.  My  Sister,  busy  with  her  plants,, 
unmindful  of  her  pets  for  a  little,  was 
startled  by  the  report  of  a  gun,  and,  rais- 
ing herself,  with  sickening  heart,  she  saw 
the  misty  smoke  near  the  trees  and  a  bird 
falling.  In  a  few  moments  Fun,  with 
drooping  ears  and  every  sign  of  distress, 
came  running,  with  the  bird  in  her  mouth, 
and  laid  the  little  bleeding  being  in  her 
mistress'  hand.  Linnet  opened  his  eyes, 
addressed  his  mistress  with  a  feeble  flutter 
and  faint  chirp,  and  died.  Marian  came  to 
me  with  streaming  tears,  pale  face  and 
quivering  mouth.  She  could  not  be  com- 
forted,  not  only  for  the  loss  of  the  little 
being  she  loved,  but  also  for  the  so  radiant 
life  barbarously  quenched;  and  of  men  who 
carry  guns  she  spoke  more  passionately^ 
harsh  words  than  ever  before  I  had  heard 
from  my  sweet  Sister. 

Marian  kept  by  her  for  a  day,  on  the 
mantel,  by  Margarita's  urn,  the  little 
feathered  winged  body  which  had  been  so 
airy,  so  swift,  so  songful  and  so  loving. 
Then,  making  a  very  intense  fire,  she  laid 
tearfully  the  cold  stillness  of  the  little 
sweet-singer  in  a  porcelain  crucible  and 
gave  it  thus  to  the  air.  The  thimble  of 
313 


Sporting. 

ashes  she  mingled  with  the  earth  around 
the  roots  of  her  favorite  rose. 

Our  dumb  fellow  beings  (dumb  as  to  ar- 
ticulation, but  full  of  amazing  expression) 
are  of  two  classes — the  helpless  faithful 
servants  of  men,  and  the  wild  creatures, 
the  radiant  beings  of  forest,  fen,  moor  and 
mere.  Touching  duty  of  gentleness,  kind- 
ness, protection,  to  the  domestic  creatures 
who  serve  us,  there  is  no  dispute.  Often 
they  are  treated  very  cruelly  indeed,  but 
the  harshness  is  held  disgraceful,  is  de- 
nounced, and  even  punished  by  law.  But 
of  the  wild  beings  there  is  need  to  speak, 
because  still  we  are  killing  them  for  sport. 

Killing  for  sport!  I  pray  my  reader  to 
consider  this  matter  with  me,  and  let  me 
speak  to  him  of  the  wild  free  creatures  to 
whom  my  soul  yearns.  If  you  be  a  skill- 
ful hunter,  I  have  to  confess,  though  not 
as  a  merit,  that  I  share  not  the  marks- 
man's ecstasy  nor  indeed  have  any  skill. 
Only  once  in  my  life  I  have  fired  a  gun, 
and  then  at  a  large  target,  which  I  hit  not 
so  much  as  the  edge  of.  Whence  I  have  no 
part  in  pursuit  of  game,  on  land,  in  air, 
or  in  water.  Notwithstanding,  I  were  of 
small  mind  if  on  that  account  I  understood 
nothing  of  the  pleasure.  I  can  conceive 
the  delight  of  the  skill  which  you  have 
with  your  weapons  in  contending  with  the 
314 


Sporting. 

intelligence,  cunning,  speed  of  the  animals. 
The  exercise  of  any  power  is  pleasurable. 
Yet  here  indeed  I  must  depart  a  little 
from  approval  if  not  from  understanding. 
For  I  fear  that  part  of  the  pleasure  lies  in  a 
certain  ecstasy  in  destruction.  Otherwise, 
why  not  shoot  at  marks,  and  if  special 
skill  be  what  is  sought,  then  at  flying 
marks,  arranged  to  pass  with  swift  motion 
across  the  field,  for  which  I  have  seen 
some  devices?  This  would  not  take  the 
place  of  field  sports?  No;  but  even  when 
the  open  air,  the  brisk  breeze,  the  fragrant 
forest,  the  wide  landscape,  the  ample 
space,  all  are  thrown  in,  still  I  fear  that  at 
bottom  there  is  a  certain  delight  in  de- 
struction which  has  survived  from  savagery; 
for  I  can  think  it  nothing  else  than  bar- 
barous. 

What  are  the  rights  of  the  lower  ani- 
mals, and  what  man's  rights  over  them? 
We  have  the  right  to  exterminate  rfoxious 
creatures,  as  venomous  serpents;  of  which, 
indeed,  there  are  few  here,  but  they  throng 
in  India  and  other  such  climates,  killing 
thousands  of  human  beings  every  year. 
So  likewise  tigers,  hyenas,  wolves,  and  the 
like.  Wallace  thinks  we  may  look  to  a 
time  when  the  earth  shall  bear  only  culti- 
vated plants  and  domestic  animals,  since 
now  the  reason  of  man  has  risen  over  the 
315 


Sporting. 

bodily  evolution  of  nature.  I  know  not. 
For  myself  I  would  not  have  it  so.  I  love 
the  wild  things,  the  beautiful  untamed 
creatures,  the  fauna,  and  the  slender  flora 
of  woods,  lowlands,  uplands,  which  no 
gardener's  art  matches  for  delicacy  and 
rare  beauty.  But  the  harmful  creatures 
we  must  do  away.  Again,  we  have  the 
right  to  take  all  we  need  for  use.  This  is 
a  part  of  nature's  general  order.  So  all 
animals  do  whose  nature  it  is  to  live  by 
prey.  And  man,  I  must  confess  it,  seems 
to  be  a  preying  creature,  indeed,  the  chief 
of  them;  for  others  prey  on  only  a  few 
creatures,  but  man  on  all,  and  it  would 
seem,  even  on  his  own  kind.  Aurelius 
says  that  the  spider  is  proud  when  he  has 
caught  a  fly,  and  a  certain  man  when  he 
has  entrapped  a  hare,  and  another  when  he 
has  netted  a  little  fish,  and  another  when 
he  has  taken  a  wild  boar,  and  another 
when  ne  has  conquered  the  Sarmatians; 
but  that  the  same  principle  is  in  all,  and 
the  act  if  wanton  is  robbery  in  all.  But 
it  need  not  be  wanton;  and  for  use  we  may 
seize  rightfully  the  creatures,  either  wild 
or  tamed.  But  has  man  a  right  to  exter- 
minate for  his  use.  That  is,  by  such  ex- 
cessive, unsparing  consumption  that  the 
species  on  which  he  preys  becomes  extinct 
before  him?  No.  Looks  it  not  greedy, 
316 


Sporting. 

immodest?  And  have  we  no  duties  to  com- 
ing generations?  May  we  rob  our  coming 
fellows  of  the  beauties  or  the  uses  of  cer- 
tain creatures  ?  The  author  of  '  'Upland  and 
Meadow,"  tells  of  his  chagrin  when  a  gray- 
beard  said  to  him,  "  You  seem  to  know 
something  about  animals,  but  we  had  the 
critters  themselves."  To  use  unsparingly 
is  unreverent  of  the  limits  of  nature.  For 
if  Nature  make  and  cherish  the  species,  is 
not  a  limit  set  thereby  to  man's  consump- 
tion of  it,  namely,  the  boundary  and  duty 
of  non-extermination  of  what  Nature  has 
made  in  harmless  beauty?  But  whether 
use  unto  extermination  be  moral  or  not, 
this  is  sure,  that  it  is  not  wise,  but  foolish, 
improvident;  for  sometimes  it  destroys  a 
needful  balance  in  Nature  —  whereby  in- 
sidious, unlooked-for  ills  come  trooping 
on  us;  and  always  it  sacrifices  future 
plenty  to  present  superfluity. 

Moreover,  if  hunting  for  use  has  been 
so  hard  on  Nature,  hunting  for  sport  I  sus- 
pect has  been  no  less  spendthrift,  and  the 
two  together  have  made  such  havoc  that 
Nature  hardly  can  wrestle  with  man's 
wantonness,  and  often  has  been  undone. 

I  know,  indeed,  there  are  many  hunters 

(the  best  and  gentlest  of  their  kind)  who, 

never  are  wanton,  will  not  shoot  birds  at 

seasons  when  the  killing  of  the  old  birds 

317 


Sporting-. 

starves  the  brood,  nor  even  at  their  mating 
times  before  the  brooding,  because  this 
cuts  nature's  stream  at  the  fountain;  and 
such  good  hunters,  indeed,  see  to  it  that 
their  game  is  used  somewhere  for  human 
benefit,  and  do  nothing  wantonly. 

But  these  I  fear  are  not  very  many 
among  those  who  hunt  for  sport.  It  is 
plain  the  waste  is  prodigious;  for  to  this 
bear  witness  our  plains  stripped  of  their 
great  splendid  creatures,  our  woods  de- 
spoiled of  deer,  our  coast  ravaged  of  birds, 
our  small  lakes  drained  of  fish.  Now  this 
waste  is  wrong;  I  fear  not  to  say  grossly 
wrong,  even  an  impiety.  Cite  not  for 
answer  the  prodigality  of  nature,  which 
scatters  thousands  of  seeds  where  one 
takes  root,  peoples  her  domains  with  crea- 
tures which  destroy  each  other,  and  fills 
interminable  plains  with  flowers  unwit- 
nessed, fruits  ungathered, — answer  not 
thus;  for  there  is  no  destruction  in  nature 
without  purpose.  The  ends  of  the  vast 
and  glorious  profusion  around  us  are,  first 
to  supply  other  creatures  who  live  by 
prey;  secondly,  to  keep  room  in  plenty, 
whence  the  fact  of  death,  which  if  it 
be  not  occasioned  by  creatures  that  prey, 
comes  by  natural  limitation  at  last,  that 
other  beings  may  have  living  space; 
thirdly,  the  evolution  of  new  and  finer 
318 


Sporting. 

forms,  for  thus  assuredly  the  long  and 
holy  processes  of  creation  come  tread- 
ing on  the  heels  of  destruction;  fourthly, 
just  beauty  and  grace  for  the  time  and 
the  place  where  it  is.  In  Gray's  oft 
quoted 

"  Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air," 

I  confess  I  like  not  the  word  waste.  Em- 
erson says  better,  that  beauty  needeth  no 
reason  but  itself,  nor  ever  is  it  a  waste  to 
Nature  that  hath  produced  it,  even  though 
no  other  portion  of  Nature's  wealth  of 
creatures  witness  the  same.  This,  says 
the  ancient  poet,  is  the  way  of  God,— 

To  cause  it  to  rain  on  the  earth  where  no  man  is, 
On  the  wilderness  wherein  there  is  no  man, 
To  satisfy  the  desolate  and  waste  ground, 
And  to  cause  the  bud  of  the  tender  herb  to  spring 
forth.  — Job  xxxvia:26. 

Thus  the  prodigality  of  Nature,  her 
endless  tribes  forever  appearing,  passing, 
disappearing,  answer  plainly  these  four 
ends;  and  how  many  more  I  pretend  not  to 
know  or  guess.  But  in  these  decrees 
there  is  no  wantonness  nor  waste,  but 
preservation  and  right  balance  of  exuber- 
319 


Sporting. 

ances;  but  man's  wanton  destruction  is 
without  use  and  a  sheer  waste,  an  inter- 
ference with  the  natural  movement  of  the 
•orders  of  creatures,  as  if  one  lay  a  bold 
arresting  hand  on  divine  machinery. 
A/Vhat  shall  I  call  this?  Impious? 

These  are  true  thoughts  I  am  sure,  and, 
I  think,  with  a  due  and  right  piety  in 
them.  But  my  subject  specially  is  Kind- 
ness, which  is  "  more  than  kin,"  and  is  the 
most  sweet  manner  of  justice.  Therefore 
my  question  is  not  one  of  economy,  nor 
even  of  respectfulness,  but  of  love.  May 
we  destroy  for  sport?  No.  We  have  no 
dominion,  except  a  tyrant's,  over  the  life 
and  pain  of  any  creature  for  our  pleasure, 
even  if  sadly  we  be  able  to  enjoy  destruc- 
tion and  pain;  and  not  any  more  over  the 
weaker  creatures  or  the  lower,  as  they  are 
called,  than  over  our  own  quality.  Who 
gave  us  this  authority?  Who  placed  us  in 
ownership  of  all  Nature?  Time  was  when 
it  was  believed  the  strong  man  might  kill 
or  torture  a  weaker  enemy  for  his  pleasure; 
but  it  was  a  savage  time;  we  wonder  at  it 
now.  Time  will  be,  I  am  sure,  when  a 
gentler  people  will  wonder  at  us,  because 
toward  the  weaker  creatures  in  our  power 
we  claim  the  same  right  of  death  or  tor- 
ture which  more  barbarously  our  father* 
used  over  each  other. 
320 


Sporting. 

"The  marmot  has  his  right  too,  in  his  house, 
Until  the  marmot-digger  comes  upon  him, 
Beats  him  to  death  and  takes  his  household  goods  — 
'Takes',  say,  the  man;  'no,'  the  marmot,  'steals;' 
'  Man,'  he  would  say,  '  thy  right  is  mastery, 
Right  of  the  stronger.'  " 

Is  there  reason,  tell  me,  why  might 
should  make  right  between  me  and  a  dove 
more  than  between  you  and  me,  my  fellow- 
man?  Is  there  reason  why  royal  reason 
itself  should  free  the  creature  who  so 
is  crowned  from  bonds  to  defend  the  weak, 
to  treat  the  defenceless  tenderly? 

Consider  the  reverent  quality  of  love 
which  all  creatures  should  rouse  in  us. 
Reverence  for  delicate  and  mysterious 
things  marks  a  high  mind.  A  gentle  soul 
approaches  anything  rare  and  exquisite 
with  a  kind  of  awe,  a  feeling  akin  to  relig- 
ion. Now  so  should  we  feel  toward  the 
creatures  around  us,  whether  living  with  us 
domesticated,  or  ranging  in  wild  freedom. 
Think  of  their  beauty  of  form!  Who 
would  esteem  himself  if  he  injured  care- 
lessly a  statue  or  a  painting?  Who  would 
injure  such  a  work  wantonly  and  for  love 
of  doing  the  injury  deftly?  If  the  statue 
or  painting  were  the  only  one  in  the 
world,  how  it  would  be  guarded  and  cher- 
l<?hed,  and  how  infamous  forever  the  hand 
that  should  destroy  it!  But  if  there  be 
321 


Sporting1. 

millions,  still  each  one  stands  alone  in 
its  beauty,  admirable  as  if  the  only  one, 
an  exquisite  creation,  to  be  lifted  above 
wantonness  or  destruction  not  a  whit  the 
more  if  solitary,  nor  a  whit  the  less  if 
multitudinous.  So  of  the  lovely  creatures 
that  bless  our  eyes  on  earth,  in  air;  is  it  not 
barbarous  to  find  sport  in  defacing  them? 

Look  at  the  creatures  about  us  simply  as 
curious  mechanism,  past  all  rivalry  or  im- 
itation. I  have  such  feeling  for  anything 
that  goes,  moving  in  regular  order  by 
recurrence,  as  if  somewhere  a  mind  lay  in 
it,  a  pulse,  a  breath,  that  I  cannot  stop  a 
watch  or  clock  without  conscience.  But  a 
watch  is  a  gross  thing  compared  to  the 
creatures  of  the  earth  looked  at  only  as 
exquisite  machines.  How  can  we  violate 
that  delicate  play  of  parts,  once  breaking 
which  we  have  no  laboratory  to  repair  it, 
nor  can  make  any  part  to  fit,  nor  renew 
the  arrested  motion?  Who  made  these 
machines?  Who  strung  the  cords,  ar- 
ranged the  wondrous  joints,  the  balls  and 
sockets,  the  bellows,  the  levers?  Who 
made  the  channels  for  the  play  of  the 
force  that  runs  somehow  from  a  center 
that  never  has  been  found  by  man's  most 
delicate  probes,  and  speeds  to  the  tips  of 
wings,  to  leaping  feet,  to  eye-lids,  ears, 
tongue?  Who  made  these  things?  'Tis 
322 


Sporting. 

certain  we  did  not.  How  then  without 
awe  or  conscience  can  we  destroy  them 
ruthlessly — for  sport? 

Think  of  the  mystery  of  life.  These 
creatures  are  not  only  the  most  delicate 
machines;  they  have  power  of  knowing, 
seeking,  gathering  and  applying  their  own 
fuel  or  sustenance;  so  that  while  their  day 
lasts  they  seem  to  realize  the  dream  (hu- 
manity's folly)  of  perpetual  motion,  as  the 
wheeling  and  circling  infinitude  of  the 
heavens  does.  This  power  of  the  creatures 
is  what  we  call  intelligence,  desire,  mind, 
life,  soul — God.  "I  have  no  name  for  it; 
feeling  is  all;  name  is  but  sound  and  smoke 
veiling  the  glow  of  heaven."  How  we 
ought  to  stand  in  awe  of  such  a  fact! 
Think  of  it;  at  one  moment  there  is  an  ex- 
quisite mechanism,  beyond  all  our  inven- 
tion or  imitation,  pervaded  with  the  mys- 
tery of  life,  floating  above  us,  careering  on 
wings,  mounting,  poising,  coming,  going, 
wheeling  in  spirals  until  but  a  speck 
on  the  clouds,  and  again  down-rushing 
with  the  speed  of  light;  and  all  this  with 
ecstasy  of  joy,  flooding  the  air  meanwhile 
with  carols,  such  as  these  beings  love  to 
sing  a-light  on  the  pinnacle  of  a  tree,  from 
whence  they  chant  their  perception  of  the 
glory  of  the  lighted  earth;  and  not  only 
with  song  but  with  gleams  of  color  flooding 
323 


Sporting:. 

the  space  through  which  their  graces  of 
motion  speed! — all  this  at  one  instant;  and 
the  next,  we  have  dealt  destruction  from  a 
distance,  and  all  the  motion,  the  song,  the 
color,  mechanism,  life,  has  dropped  into 
our  hands,  a  mere  mass  of  matter,  a 
chemical  congeries  of  atoms,  on  which 
even  now  as  we  look  rapacious  inorganic 
forces  fasten  fangs.  This  by  our  act; 
this  out  of — shall  I  say,  our  heart?  our 
pity? 

Finally,  consider  the  pain  inflicted.  O 
the  pain!  the  pain!  the  dire  dreadful  tor- 
ture of  soul,  such  as  a  hunted  fox  has, 
growing  to  tortures  of  bodily  struggles, 
hard  breathing,  the  eyes  starting,  the 
tongue  hanging  and  dripping,  ending  at 
last  in  the  keener  anguish,  yet  quicker  to 
conclude  and  so  more  merciful,  of  lacera- 
tion. The  pain!  the  pain!  the  agonies! 

But  if  we  will  not  spare  the  radiant 
wild  beings  whom  we  agonize,  at  least 
consider  ourselves  whom  we  degrade. 
What  belongs  more  to  a  reasonable  crea- 
ture than  to  nurse  tenderness  of  feeling? 
Is  this  enough  thought  of  in  the  world? 
Understand  we  as  we  ought  that  feeling, 
like  mind,  or  any  capacity  or  knowledge, 
as  skill  in  art,  in  mathematics,  in  experi- 
ment, in  language,  must  be  wrought  by 
care,  applying  the  proper  means  thereof? 
324 


Sporting. 

For  ourselves  there  is  nothing  more  prec- 
ious; since  assuredly  Nature  will  be  no 
more  tender  to  us  than  we  shall  have 
learned  to  be  to  Nature.  I  mean,  that  if 
we  be  hard  at  heart,  the  earth,  sky,  waters, 
will  have  no  rosy  tenderness  for  us,  and 
men  no  softness  to  our  understanding; 
but  we  shall  meet  everywhere  the  hardness 
which  is  in  us.  And  for  others,  how  un- 
speakably needful  that  we  should  be  ten- 
der! For  this  is  the  happiness,  the  help, 
the  liberty  of  those  who  live  with  us.  Now, 
doth  it  soften  the  heart  to  kill  for  sport? 
Or  still  worse,  to  maim  for  sport?  Have 
you  bethought  you  that  wherever  hunters 
go,  they  not  only  kill,  but  maim  many 
a  creature  who  then  drags  itself  away  to  a 
long,  lingering  anguish  of  dying,  either  of 
the  wound  or  of  starvation?  These  are 
quick  nerves,  as  quick  as  yours  or  mine; 
they  feel  the  smart,  the  pang,  the  soreness 
as  we  would.  A  friend  told  me  that  on  a 
hot  afternoon  of  summer  he  walked  along 
the  reedy  bank  of  a  stream  near  which  he 
had  heard  gunning  early  in  the  day.  A 
slight  noise  drew  his  attention  and  he 
found  under  a  thin  cover  a  wretched 
wounded  bird.  The  little  creature  had 
lain  there  all  that  hot  day,  in  the  lingering 
anguish  of  a  wound  inflicted  in  the  early 
morning.  My  friend  mercifully  killed  the 
325 


Sporting. 

harmless  sufferer  instantly;  but  what  of  the 
hunter  whose  sport  had  caused  all  that 
pain?  And  what  of  the  certainty  that  it 
was  but  one  of  many  not  found  and  linger- 
ing in  the  pain  for  many  days  perhaps?  I 
have  read  a  hunter's  pitiful  record  of  find- 
ing and  picking  up  a  wounded  partridge, 
evidently  hit  some  days  before,  still  alive, 
and  the  sore  wound,  which  the  little  being 
had  no  hands  to  protect,  no  way  to  reach, 
filled  with  maggots  and  worms.  And  these 
things,  the  agonies  of  the  many  wounded 
but  not  killed,  that  hunter  says,  attend  all 
cover  shooting;  and  when  the  sportsmen 
have  gone  to  their  jolly  dinner  at  the  manor, 
inside  there  is  light,  warmth,  cheer,  out 
in  the  cover  darkness,  cold  and  unspeak- 
able pain.  These  are  cruel  thoughts.  If 
they  come  not  to  our  hearts  when  we  think 
of  "sport,"  or  if,  though  they  come,  we 
still  hie  to  the  sport,  will  this  nurse  our 
tenderness,  for  our  own  heart-life  or  to 
others'  benefit? 

Note. — My  Sister,  having  read  this  chap- 
ter, in  her  revisal,  has  recalled  to  my 
mind  an  incident  told  us  long  ago  by  a 
venerable  lady  of  Plymouth.  There  was 
hunting  at  Naushon.  Two  friends,  one  of 
them  a  novice,  lay  in  hiding,  when  suddenly 
came  out  of  the  woods,  from  an  unex- 
326 


Sporting. 

pected  direction,  a  very  beautiful  doe. 
The  situations  brought  the  animal  and  the 
man  on  an  instant  face  to  face,  and 
the  two  creatures,  the  speaking  and  the 
dumb,  gazed  at  each  other  in  mutual  as- 
tonishment and  admiration,  as  still  as 
statues.  There  was  the  man  in  all  the 
glory  of  reason,  supplied  with  inventions, 
full  of  knowledge  which  was  majestic  in 
his  face  and  revealed  itself  in  his  hands. 
There  stood  the  doe,  meek,  yet  with 
a  wild  proud  freedom,  supple  and  deli- 
cate in  every  line  of  her  body,  bright  red 
brown  in  color,  the  lovely  neck  tow- 
ering, the  soft  face  turned  forward,  the 
pathetic  liquid  eyes  beaming  a  gentle  kind 
wonder — a  creature  of  exquisite  grace,  of 
unarmed  and  sweet  mildness.  After  a 
little,  the  delicate  being,  with  a  wonder- 
ing sniff  of  the  air  and  a  quiver  of  the  nos- 
trils, turned  and  fled  away  among  the  trees. 
The  sportsman  came  running  to  his  friend: 
— "Why  did  not  you  shoot?"  The  man 
started,  looked  vacantly  an  instant,  then 
warm  color  mounted  and  the  eyes  glistened: 
— "Shoot?  I  never  thought  of  it.  I 
would  as  soon  have  taken  aim  at  my  grand- 
mother!" 


327 


Conclusion. 


XXIX. 

I  said  to  Marian,  of  a  recent  evening, 
"Take  thy  lovely  instrument,  dear  Sister, 
and  play  to  me.  Play  lMuss  P  denn?  first; 
afterward,  what  thou  wilt.  Also  sing,  not 
forgetting  Margarita's  love-song.  For  I 
am  weary,  and  would  have  music  rest  me. 
Music  takes  us  up  into  her  arms  and  makes 
us  children  again.  And  even  if  I  fall 
asleep,  think  not  but  I  shall  be  listening. 
Thy  tones  will  change  to  hewn  gems  in  my 
dream,  and  I  will  build  of  them  a  palace  of 
light." 

I  betook  me  to  the  divan  in  our  study, 
and  to  the  low  ottoman  near  by  Marian 
brought  the  guitar. 

"Nearer,"  said  I;  "It  is  dusky  twilight. 
I  would  see  thy  hands  on  the  strings  and 
thine  arm  like  a  grace  over  the  instrument. " 

"And  what  will  hands  and  arm  become 
in  thy  dream  if  thou  fall  asleep?"  laughed 
my  Dozen.  "Belike  some  impish  pinches 
for  thy  rudeness,  to  awaken  thee." 

But  I  slept  not,  and  my  Sister  refreshed 
me  with  piece  after  piece  of  her  delicate 
328 


Conclusion. 

playing,  with  here  and  there  a  song.  It 
was  delicious  rest.  As  the  shadows  deep- 
ened, it  grew  to  an  almost  mystical,  tin- 
earthlike  delight.  Under  its  spell  I  was 
so  still  for  a  long  time  that  at  last  my  Sis- 
ter, ending  a  Slumber-song  which  is  a  fav- 
orite with  me,  instead  of  the  concluding 
words,  sang  "Art  thou  sleeping,  Brother?'* 

"No," said  I,  "but  almost  over-charmed, 
except  that  I  have  a  very  lively  discontent- 
ed wish." 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"I  wish  I  could  compose  music.  How 
delicious  were  it  to  hear  my  soul  expound- 
ed by  thy  fingers  and  thy  voice!" 

"Thou  art  like  the  hero  in  an  Arabian- 
Nights  tale,  who,  when  he  had  all  else, 
could  not  be  content  without  asking  of  the 
Genie  a  Roc's  egg.  Which  is  to  say,  thou 
art  rapacious.  Thou  deservest  to  be  re- 
proved, as  the  Genie  served  the  hero. 
Canst  not  be  content  with  thy  pen  in  prose 
and  verse,  but  thou  must  carve  music  too?" 

"  'Carve  music'  is  very  good,"  said  I; 
"but  thy  music  has  been  carving  a  fine 
vision  for  me.  Dost  remember  that 
thought  in  Fingal,  the  coming  of  the  ghosts 
when  Carril  sang — the  place  we  read  last 
night?" 

"  'The  ghosts  of  those  he  sang  came  in 
their  rustling  winds.  They  were  seen  to 
329 


Conclusion. 

bend  with  joy  toward  the  sound  of  their 
praise.'  Yes." 

"Thy  music  brought  that  scene  to  mind, 
and  then  instantly  a  kindred  apparition 
formed  in  the  sky  yonder  which  I  saw  as 
plainly  as  any  reality.  I  saw  three  figures. 
One  was  Peace,  a  sweet  quiet  maid,  with 
far-searching  eyes,  her  back  to  a  rushing 
wind,  her  hair  brought  over  her  shoulder 
tightly  across  her  bosom,  so  that  the  wind 
moved  it  not.  Another  was  Love,  like 
lier  sister  Peace,  except  that  her  hair  was 
tossed  in  the  wind  and  blown  all  about  her, 
and  fell  in  a  fine  veil  over  her  face.  The 
other  was  Joy,  like  to  her  sisters,  except 
that  her  bright  hair  streamed  in  the  wind 
straight  before  her  over  her  shoulder  in 
one  tress,  and  with  her  right  hand  she 
held  a  long  trumpet  to  her  mouth.  A 
great  concourse  of  bright  beings  were 
with  them  in  three  parts,  one  part  behind 
each  figure,  but  soon  mingling  further  be- 
hind and  agreeing  then  in  one  throng. 
And  these  heavenly  figures  were  attending 
and  bending  to  thy  playing  with  delight, 
like  the  ghosts  in  Fingal  <  toward  the 
sound  of  their  praise/  thy  music  being 
Peace  and  Love  and  Joy.  Was  not  that  a 
fair  vision  for  thy  music  to  sculpture  for 
me  on  yonder  cloud  in  the  moonlight?  " 

"And  thou,"  cried  my  Sister,  "whoem- 
330 


Conclusion. 

bracest  both  age  and  youth,  by  the 
prophet's  tokens,  '  your  old  men  shall 
dream  dreams,  your  young  men  shall  see 
visions,'  —  thou  wouldst  compose  music 
too!  Truly  thou  art  rapacious.  Thou 
lackest  a  certain  piety." 

But  her  face  was  full  of  a  very  sweet 
happiness. 

"I  have  some  news  for  thee,  dear 
Marian,"  said  I.  "Thou  wilt  remember 
that  book  which  I  was  writing  secretly  — 
but  I  let  slip  the  secret  to  thee  at  an  un- 
wary moment.  Well,  it  is  done.  This 
morning  I  penned  the  last  word  of  the 
last  chapter." 

"It  has  been  a  happy  doing?"  said 
Marian. 

"Blissful,"  said  I. 

She  looked  at  me  very  lovingly  and 
with  a  delightful  joy,  but  said  no  more. 

At  last — "And  now  comes  thy  part," 
said  I. 

My  Dozen  nodded. 

"But  there  is  a  condition." 

"  Can  one  judge  under  conditions?*'  said 
Sister. 

"An  exception,  then.  In  brief,  thou 
art  not  to  touch  the  places  in  which  I 
have  spoken  of  thee." 

Marian  looked  doubtful. 

"Nay,"  said  I,  answering  the  look,    "I 
331 


Conclusion. 

am  fixed.  For  although  I  am  like  the  cen- 
turion at  Capernaum  — 

"How  like  the  centurion?"  asked  my 
Dozeji. 

"Why,  I  am  a  man  under  authority." 

"Ah!" 

"'Tisso.  But  in  this  point  I  assert 
myself.  Thou  may'st  hew  and  trim  and 
file  all  else  as  thou  wilt;  but  what  I  have 
writ  of  thee  shall  stay  as  it  is.  And 
rightfully  too;  for  what  I  ask  of  thee  is  un- 
biased judgment,  which  thou  canst  not 
give  in  what  I,  of  my  heart  and  my  eye 
and  my  mind's  eye,  know  very  well,  and 
unbiased,  of  thee.  Therefore,  content 
thee." 

With  this  I  gave  her  the  manuscript. 

All  this  was  three  weeks  ago.  Last 
evening  Marian  brought  me  back  the  book. 
After  we  had  talked  over  her  emendations 
and  I  had  admired  the  good  sense  and 
taste  of  every  one  of  them,  except  that 
she  demurred  to  some  of  my  expressions 
concerning  herself  and  in  these  I  was  res- 
olute to  have  my  own  way,  she  said  at  last: 

"Well,  however  thou  wilt,  I  am  deeply 
moved,  Brother,  by  the  parts  that  refer  to 
me  in  thy  book — " 

"  Our  book"  said  I,  quietly,  covering 
her  hand  with  mine. 

"  Our  book,"  said  she,  with  a  dewy 
332 


Conclusion. 

quaver  in  her  voice,  "it  thou  wilt  have  it 
so.  But  surely  the  parts  which  speak  of 
me  are  thine." 

"  Doubly  ours,"  said  I;  "I  but  tran- 
scribed thy  spirit  in  me." 

Then  Marian  offered  an  opinion  as  to  a 
name  for  the  book.  She  would  call  it 
"MORE  THAN  KIN,"  taking  the  title  from 
my  use  of  those  words  in  one  or  two  places, 
she  said;  and  I  liked  the  name  exceed- 
ingly well. 

"  I  will  write  a  brief  opening  to  intro- 
duce the  name  at  the  very  beginning,"  said 
I.  "And  so  our  book  is  done,  dear." 

"None  ever  compared  with  thee  for 
sweetness  unto  a  woman"  —  so  my  Sister 
was  pleased  to  say. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  I  — 

"Hast  any  notion,"  said  my  Dozen, 
"with  what  constant  perfect  and  sweet 
comradeship  of  spirit  thou  clothest  me 
withal?  I  trow  not.  Thou  art  perfect 
unto  me.  Thy  love  and  thoughts  spread 
around  me  like  a  warm  fair  morning,  my 
Brother." 

"Now,  now,"  I  said,  "I  must  quiet 
thee." 

"I  am  making  no  noise." 

"Thou  art  making  a  vast  noise,  for 
a  noise  is  but  sound  ill-placed.  Is  it 
any  less  ill-placed  to  over-praise  me  to  my 
333 


Conclusion. 

face  than  to  under-talk  me  to  others? 
Tell  me  that.  Ah!  ha!" 

But  I  blessed  her  with  grateful  love,  and 
betook  me  to  writing  an  opening  for  the 
book,  for  the  name;  and  she  was  gone. 

Ah!  Sister,  my  Sister,  follow  thy  heart 
and  not  my  words.  Ay,  give  thy  honest 
dear  praises.  Can  a  man  have  more  or 
better  honor  than  to  be  good  joy  unto  a 
woman,  whether  mother,  sister  or  wife? 
And  praise  we  poor  mortals  each  other 
enough  in  this  world?  Delight  we  enough 
in  each  other? 


THE    END. 


334: 


I'MYKKslTY   or  CALIFORNIA   LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  EATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


FEB  28  1916 
31  1919 


9 

WAR  87  2920 

NOV   8  1920 

t£  II 
JUL  25  1922 


APR  115 


APR  4    1«31 

MAR   9    1932 


02972 


267945 


Ksl- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


